


Put Your Clocks Back For the Winter

by shihadchick



Series: Kiss the Sky [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, basically a romance novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 137,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4963504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard and weird enough to navigate a long-distance relationship when it became long-distance about five minutes after becoming a relationship.</p>
<p>Nick Leddy, Brandon Saad, and the 2014 - 2015 season that could have been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: June 2013

**Author's Note:**

> Content Notes: Patrick Kane is not a character in this fic. His February injury is alluded to, but that is the only mention, and it is not by name.
> 
> Partners/family of other hockey players are referred to by name and have dialogue at points, but this story is primarily focused on Leddy and Saad. 
> 
> I don't think any other common warnings would apply to the content, but if you have concerns or think I've missed something, please feel free to either comment here or email me directly; this username at gmail will also reach me. I'm also happy to give more specific content information if there's anything you're particularly concerned about. 
> 
> This story follows the general arc of the 2015 season quite closely, with some hand-waving around the timing of the Leddy trade. Title from Shihad's Home Again.
> 
> More thanks than I can ever adequately express are due to [labellementeuse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/labellementeuse/pseuds/labellementeuse), who let me send her literally hundreds of emails over the past 8 months, and kept me going with this story. <333 
> 
> Also, thanks are due to [thehandsoftime](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thehandsoftime/pseuds/thehandsoftime), who generously shared her Trocheck-ological expertise and was super encouraging. <3
> 
> Thanks also to everyone who let me crash on their couch, in their spare room, or in a hotel room with them throughout this year; the sheer number (and locations) of different places where I holed up to write kind of beggars comprehension now. I appreciate you all deeply. Also, to my twitter feed, for being supportive and awesome and only laughing a little bit at my ridiculousness.

Brandon's barely twenty years old and he's just won the Stanley Cup, and, honestly, he doesn't know what to do with himself.

It's overwhelming, knowing that they've done this; turned everything around at the last minute, getting through the Wild and the Red Wings and the Kings, fuck, and now he's skated the Cup across the TD Garden ice, and he's not actually sure he's going to be able to believe this tomorrow, even with all the video and pictures he's sure are going to come out.

He finds George in the mess of Hawks-related people who've spilled out onto the ice, and he's pretty sure he whooped before jumping on him, but George hadn't even staggered, grin a mile wide. He'd found his mom and dad, too, and then the next thing he clearly remembers is Andy yelling in his ear, still bleeding and clearly not feeling a thing. And Leds, right there, grinning at them both.

They finally wound up back in the dressing room, soaked in beer and champagne and sweat, and it's probably the grossest Brandon's been in his life and he couldn't be happier. People have pressed bottles into his hands, because no one cares if he's technically underage right now, and he's drunk some, but mostly he's high on the fucking moment; that this is really happening.

He thinks he even hugged Rocky at some point, but even the brass are deliriously happy and high on life; there's more hugging going on in the locker room than Brandon's seen at a lot of weddings. It's awesome. He's won tournaments, championships before, but nothing,  _nothing_ like this. They talk to the press, and Brandon gives interview after interview, trying to stay calm enough that he doesn't embarrass himself or the team, but he has no idea what he's even saying at this point, fully on automatic. Every time he looks up there's someone else cheering or drinking or raising the cup again, and he's right in on that, doesn't think he'll ever forget the way this feels. It’s a blur of memories again after that; the beaming smiles plastered across his teammates’ faces, Leds grinning like his face is gonna break and mouthing "we did it" to him, Zus just hugging the Cup like it's one of his own kids, Duncs putting baby Colton in the Cup -- after making sure not to drop the baby-sized earmuffs, because this is a hell of a din, even for an adult. Brandon's surprised none of the kids in there are screaming their heads off, honestly, although mostly the guys with babies have vanished with their families outside for quieter reunions.

"Fuckin' lets go," Tazer yells at some point, when the locker room is basically 50% beer and 50% fewer cameras than before, and Brandon and a couple of the other guys follow him back out onto the ice, dressed in their suits instead of jerseys and gear now. Brandon would normally be laughing his ass off at Tazer's terrible moonwalk, but instead he's taking in the moment, the few fans still determinedly clustered around the glass, screaming as they see some of the Hawks out there again, the waiting stillness of a mostly-empty arena, at the end of season. Fuck, they've fucking done this.

All too soon, they're being chivvied onto the bus and back to the airport, their charter waiting to take them -- and the Cup, the fucking Cup -- back to Chicago. Brandon's never done this before, not like half this team, but he knows to expect fans at the airport, in town, everywhere they go. He's not going to see his bed for a long while yet, and that is absolutely fine by him.

Tazer's toting the Cup again, the guys who look after it trailing behind him like determinedly professional ghosts. It's unlikely anyone's going to, like, lose it, or drop it in the river or whatever, but it's probably good that someone's got an eye to the possibility. Brandon wonders for a moment who pays them, and then assumes it's probably the NHL, but maybe he'll think to ask some time.

"Saader!" Leds and Boller both yell, basically right in his ear, but all he can do is grin at them, and the three of them more or less fall bodily into a row of seats, overtired and not quite sober and finally starting to feel some of the last two months worth of pain and tension hitting them. Adrenaline will kick in again soon, Brandon's sure, but for now it's kind of great to just be with his team, with _friends_ to enjoy this moment. The long-suffering flight crew remind them all that they need to put their seat belts on, really, even if they did just win the Cup, and he finds himself tilting sideways and landing on Leddy’s shoulder. He's unyielding and solid, steady beside him, and Brandon grins up at him, so pleased to be there, to be with him -- and with Andy and Krugs and Boller, all the guys he's got to know in Rockford and in Chicago. Leds just grins back at him, and it's definitely summer, now; the season's over and everything is warm and it's going to be amazing.

Halfway through the plane ride -- posing with Shawzy for pictures with the Cup and wondering aloud whether it would be better or worse to eat more before they start drinking again -- Brandon realizes that he’s probably drunker than he thought. It's working out for him so far, though, so he just rolls with it, demands Leds take a selfie of the two of them on the plane, and then with the Cup, and then with Johnny O and Krugs and Hammer, and Brandon lands in Chicago in a totally different seat than the one he'd been in when they took off from Logan. It feels like the shortest flight he's ever taken.

There are, as he'd guessed, fans lining the chain link fence around their end of the terminal, cheering as they walk down the steps from their charter, reaching fever pitch when Tazer brings the Cup out and raises it for them again. And then there's a fleet of cabs, and Brandon's just following along at this point, has no idea where they're going or what he'd do if he loses the others, because his phone has been dead since halfway through the flight, uncharged and with hundreds of texts and calls from what seems like everyone he's ever met.

If asked afterward, he doesn't think he'd be able to actually identify the first bar they wind up at, or the club after that, or the third one; just that he's following his teammates and the Cup and, to be honest, the amount of noise that goes with it, even as it sounds like all of Chicago is celebrating with them; car horns and sirens and people yelling even though it has to be close to 4 or 5am by that point. Things are only just starting to feel quieter when they land somewhere that he thinks is probably in Wrigleyville, and maybe even a club he's been to before, because the VIP section looks vaguely familiar, and not just in the way that every VIP section in the Greater Chicago area looks more similar than they do different.

There's still people everywhere, especially right by the Cup, taking pride of place at the end of the table, but Brandon's sunk back into one of the booths, letting himself slump into the heavily cushioned seats, and okay, yeah, he's young but he's definitely not indestructible and he's absolutely starting to feel close to done. It's darker in the corner, and a little quieter. Brandon's the only one sitting down at first, everyone else still drinking or dancing or doing their best to pick up one or-- Jesus, Stals -- or more attractive women, of whom there are certainly no shortage at present.

Brandon's turning his drink around in his hands, letting the glass skid in the condensation gathering on the table, not thinking about much of anything, just looking back over at the Cup every now and then because fuck, this is really happening.

"Saader, we won the Cup," Leddy says - half yells, really, considering Brandon can hear him pretty clearly over the bass and whatever music is playing - and he tumbles into the booth next to Brandon, half on top of him really. Brandon wraps an arm around him, making sure neither of them is going to tip over or pick up some really embarrassing injury before the parade by face-planting into the table.

"Fucking great," Brandon agrees, and Leds is so close he doesn't even have to yell anymore, his lips right by Leddy's ear. Brandon can see where his hair is sticking up at the back, still half-matted with sweat and all the champagne that had been washing around the visitors locker room. He must have half-assed his shower the same way the rest of them had, and Brandon scratches at the back of his own neck and figures he's probably in the same straits.

"Hell yeah," Leddy says, still leaning into Brandon, his hand heavy on Brandon's thigh, the other loose around the beer he'd put on the table by Brandon's drink, even though Brandon's is anonymously dark liquid in a regular glass — giving them some small degree of deniability since unlike Leds he's still underage, not that anywhere in Chicago is gonna let any of them actually _buy_ a drink tonight.

"You were great," Brandon tells him sincerely, just like he'd-- like he'd tell anyone else on the team, really. Except he's tired and drunk enough now to admit, way down in the back of his brain, that he doesn't quite mean it the same to Leds as he would to anyone else. He looks at Leds more than he should.

Without his conscious permission, his arm tightens around Leddy's shoulders. Leds leans into him naturally, frowning just a little as his gaze comes up to meet Brandon's, and Brandon has to swallow hard then, mouth dry, because he's definitely staring at Leddy's mouth. And Leds is looking right back at him, an all-too-familiar look on his face, and it’s that which makes Brandon realize abruptly that this is what he wants, what he's been circling back to all night. He starts to lean in, heedless of where they are and what they're doing; of  _who_ they are—

"The fucking Cup!" Shawzy yells, throwing himself down into the booth beside them -- half on Leddy, probably, if the way he startles visibly is any indication. Leds manages to hide that split-second reaction so fast that Brandon could almost doubt that he’d seen it, distracted by the way Leddy shoves Shawzy away mercilessly, sending him sprawling onto the table, happy-drunk and boneless with it. Brandon jerks away at the same time, and hits his head on the wall behind him -- not hard, not bad, just enough to knock some sense back into himself -- as he straightens up fast.

Fuck, he nearly— and he catches Leddy's gaze again for just a moment, looking just as thrown as Brandon feels — no, _they_ nearly—

It’s lucky Shawzy has terrible fucking timing, Brandon thinks, and he bumps his shoulder into Leds and says, "Hey, I gotta piss, let me up?" and retreats to the thankfully less crowded by far men's room to pull himself back together.

Maybe Leds is just really drunk, Brandon tells himself. It didn't necessarily mean he was interested; god knows Brandon's seen enough over the years to figure that some guys are just really weird about each other. It's basically a hallowed hockey tradition. So maybe him and Leds are just— that. Shawzy's already crowned them the bromance of the century or some shit like that, Brandon is just— tired and over-thinking it.

He's careful not to meet Leds' eyes again the rest of the night, though.

 


	2. October 2014

The game in New York is their last of the preseason, and with almost a week between that and the regular season starting up, there’s enough time that going out for one last drink or three after their charter gets back to Chicago doesn’t seem all that outrageous, even though it’s basically midnight.

Brandon’s been doing this long enough now not to be too worried about the fact they’ve dropped four of six; it’s not like the full roster was playing a single one of those games, and it’s not exactly representative, not really. They’re warming up and letting the coaching staff get a look at the new kids, trying things out. Half the core of the team has sat out games, even Brandon had a day in the press box the first week back. It’s all normal.

The trade rumors circulating are also normal, especially for this point in the year, and most of them are complete horseshit — also normal — but Brandon can’t deny the fact that one of them is looking more and more plausible by the minute; that the odds are good that Nick Leddy isn’t going to be a Blackhawk on opening night. Brandon had been careful to hide his reaction when Leds had skated in the warm-up that evening and then been called up to the press box at the last minute. They all knew it was standard operating procedure for a guy you didn’t want injured on the eve of a trade.

It makes everything feel weird, uncertain and unsteady; the atmosphere in the locker room — already off-kilter with the addition of so many new faces — and on the charter, and around the booth they’d crammed into, the ten or so of them who’d dumped bags into their cars and decided without all that much discussion to hit up a bar together. Brandon’s trying not to think the phrase ‘one last hurrah’, but it applies even if none of them want to talk about it.

Shawzy had gone home after one drink, scowling faintly whenever he forgot to stop himself. He was clearly still missing Boller at least, and his mood was not improved at all by the prospect of having Leddy be the next of their little group to go, of all the guys who’d been in Rockford together. Brandon wondered if Leds would go with him — share a cab, maybe, since they were going to the same place and all, but Nick kept staring at the glass in front of him resolutely and said, “See you later, Shawzy,” without making eye contact.

It was just— weird. Brandon almost wants the other shoe to just drop already, so that they _know_. It’s not that he wants Leddy to be traded, but the way this is dragging on with constant speculation is wearing him down, and it’s not even his life under the microscope. Everyone knows what’s about to go down, even if they don’t want to talk about it.

Brandon stares into his own glass for a long moment. There’s nothing he can do about it, either; he knows better than that.

He manages to hold a conversation with a couple of the others; some of the younger guys up from Rockford — some of whom are, admittedly, technically older than him — are all excited still. They’re high on getting their first taste of NHL experience, even if it is just the preseason, and doing a bad job of hiding it in a few cases. Most of them stick it out for an hour or so before heading back to their hotels; it’s a smart move and one Brandon should probably emulate, even if he does know that he’s not in any reasonable danger of being sent back down to the A. His summer training has gone well, training camp hasn’t been any big surprise, and one late night isn’t going to do much to damage the preparation he’s put in ahead of this season.

Brandon's not sure exactly when or how it happens, but he comes back from the bar with his drink and another beer for Leddy, and everyone else has just melted away. Leds isn't sulking or anything like that, they all know how this goes, but he's definitely quieter than usual, intense in a way that Brandon's not used to seeing off the ice. It makes his stomach twist a little, uneasy, because he's got so many things he doesn't really need to think about right now, and Leds leaving is just one of them. And the reason that’s getting to him is another.

It’s reckless of him, but when he realizes it’s just the the two of them left, he decides at the last second to sit down on the opposite side of the table instead, sliding in right next to Leddy instead of safely opposite him. They’ve sat closer in team meetings, scuffled sitting half on top of each other during playoff Nintendo tournaments, they’ve stood closer in the showers, for fuckssake. No one’s going to look twice. Brandon can let himself have this much at least, surely.

"Here," he says, sliding the full glass over from the edge of the table to Leds, leaning back into the over-stuffed upholstery of the booth.

"Thanks," Leddy says, slouching back, and tipping into Brandon's shoulder just a little, his head heavy, and Brandon holds his breath for a moment.

"All good," Brandon says. He’s struggling to think of much of anything else to say. "So did the others turn into pumpkins already, or what?"

"Nice dad joke there, Saader," Leddy says, sighing, and he lets his eyes close before turning his face into Brandon's biceps.

Being able to note that detail means Brandon is probably paying too much attention to what Leds is doing, which would be more of a problem if he thought Leds would notice. The way he's acting now, he's either way drunker than Brandon had thought, or— something. Brandon tries to pull his own thoughts back onto the straight and narrow; wishful thinking is not exactly helpful in his personal life.

"Hey, are you done for the night?" Brandon asks.

He doesn't mind abandoning his own drink, and he's probably better off cutting himself off there too, for a number of reasons.

"Yeah," Leddy says, sitting up with a muttered groan, reaching back onto the table to pick up his glass and draining it in its entirety. Brandon's only about fifty percent sure he didn't stare.

"Uh, Leds?" Brandon isn't used to watching Leddy polish off more than a drink or two this fast, he's not a killjoy but he's not exactly a major partier either. They usually find themselves in a corner talking, laughing at drunker people and maintaining a pleasant buzz.

"Come home with me," Leddy says, out of nowhere, disconcertingly direct. He's looking right at Brandon, holding eye contact, so steady that Brandon takes a second or ten to even begin to process what Leddy's actually said, too taken up with trying to resolve the look on his face.

"What?" Brandon says, fully aware that he sounds slow and stupid, and maybe a little drunk too, but Leddy can't possibly have meant what Brandon's dumb, self-absorbed mind thinks.

It's only the tiniest of glances, but Leddy looks around, making sure no one is really in earshot, that he won't be overheard.

"Come home with me," he says again, and he reaches over, his movements masked by the table, fingers curling around Brandon's wrist, shockingly warm as his thumb moves over the pulse point, fingertip pushing just under the fastening of Brandon's watch.

"I—" Brandon stumbles, feeling every nerve in his body light up and scream at him to agree, even though he knows it would be a tremendously stupid idea. "I thought we weren't going to talk about this."

"I don't want to talk," Leddy says, still not breaking eye contact, the blunt nail of his thumb digging in to Brandon's skin, and when did it get so warm in there?

Brandon should say no. He should play dumb, and pretend like he doesn't know what Leddy's asking for. Shawzy jokes about their bromance, and that's fine; there's things they’re allowed to do, that no one else would look twice at. But even with the way Brandon knows he's looked at Leddy, and the way he's seen Leds look back — it's always been unspoken. The knowledge that nothing's going to happen, because it's a bad idea.

"We're teammates," Brandon says, barely above a whisper, and it's hard to swallow.

"Not for much longer," Leddy says, and it sounds like it hurts, raw rather than bitter.

Brandon wouldn't have blamed him if he had been bitter, but this glimpse of vulnerability undoes him completely, and even as he's opening his mouth to deflect just like every other time they've gotten close to this moment, what he actually says is, "Okay. Yes."

Leddy squeezes his wrist once, and then lets go, shuffling over to bump his hip into Brandon's, encouraging him to slide out of the booth and get to his feet again. "Come on," Leddy says, and leads them out of the bar, onto the street and into a cab.

They're quiet in the cab, and Brandon tries to settle himself, find one train of thought and stick with it, but when it comes down to it, all he's really focusing on is Leddy, sitting just as quietly mere inches away. Leds gives the driver Brandon's address, which makes sense — Andy and Chaunette will be home already, and whatever winds up happening tonight, Brandon doesn't want an audience. He feels pretty safe in assuming that Nick feels the same.

It seems almost ordinary as they pile out of the cab, pay the driver — Brandon gets his wallet open first and for once Nick doesn't argue — and he almost wonders if he's over-thinking it, if he misread. Maybe Leds just wants to have company with all of this hanging over him. That sensation lasts precisely as long as it takes for Brandon to lock his apartment door behind them, dropping his keys onto the sideboard and turning around to find Nick right there, well inside his personal space, completely outside any type of plausible deniability.

"This isn't how I wanted to do this," Brandon manages to say after a moment. "I mean, I want to, you're just. This wasn't it."

"Better late than never?" Nick asks with a half-smile, and Brandon thinks about how easy it would've been to just keep turning his back on this, no matter how much he wants it, and fuck it. They've been being responsible and sensible for long enough. Brandon is more than ready to push back.

"You want to stay tonight?" he asks, leaning into Nick, hands itching to touch.

"Yes," Nick says. "You okay with me staying?"

"It's not exactly the first time," Brandon points out, because they've both crashed at each other's places before. Nick and Andy don't — didn't, Brandon corrects himself fiercely, it's going to be didn't, this fucking _sucks_ — there's no spare room there, and Brandon's slept in Nick's bed a time or two; too tired or just drunk enough to blame that for needing to stay over, taking exactly as much as seemed safe. He'd always slept well with Nick right there, warm and in arms' reach, even if he wouldn't let himself act on that desire to touch.

"I would've said if I wasn't," Brandon says, and fuck talking about it, he's so fucking tired of trying to deny or ignore all of this.

He should be thinking about how the Hawks are playing games again, even if they don't mean anything, and he is excited about getting back to work, about the upcoming season, going for the Cup again— but at the same time, he feels vaguely nauseated by the idea of watching Leddy leave, thinking of him in another team's jersey. It's the nature of the game, it's not the first time and it won’t be the last that a good friend's been traded, and he can normally take it fine, but this is different. It's different because it's Leds, and Leddy isn't just the guy that Brandon hangs out with a lot, that he watches football games with and has beers with.

"Okay, yeah," Brandon says, so fucking sick of turning this over and over in his head. He just wants. He wants. "Fuck it," he says, and leans in, one hand going to Leddy's waist, fingers tucking into his belt, the other curving around his jaw.

It's probably the first time he's ever touched Nick's face like this, shockingly intimate, his beard rough against Brandon's fingers. It only takes half a breath after that for him to press in for a kiss, Nick's mouth opening easily against his, warm and inviting. It's good, it's _so_ good, it's even better than Brandon had ever imagined it would be, and he hasn’t exactly been slacking on that set of thoughts, all too easy to fall back on in the dark when he doesn’t have to meet anyone else’s eyes or admit it out loud. It seems like it only takes a couple of seconds before Nick pulls back a little, and Brandon can realize how close together they're pressed, how he can feel Nick against him from chest to knees, and this is going to be so, so fucking good.

"You're sober enough to do this, right?" Brandon asks, making sure, because stopping now would suck, but he wants them to both be sober enough to remember this.

"Yes," Nick says again, and this time he's the one who leans in, the kiss getting hot and heavy in record time, and Brandon's breathless by the time they break apart again.

"We're having sex, right?" he says, because fuck talking in circles around it any more.

"Oh my god," Nick says, and oh, right, he's sliding his hands under Brandon's shirt and around to his back, tugging their bodies closer together before he sneaks a hand down to grope Brandon's ass. "Yes, we're having sex, can you please get naked already?"

"Faster than you can," Brandon says, his pulse echoing in his ears, breath coming short, suiting actions to words as he yanks his shirt off over his head and tugs at the flies of his pants.

Nick's moving with equal dispatch, and he's barely managed to kick his pants off before Brandon's hands are back on him, getting in his way as much as he's helping before they both manage to get his button-down undone.

"Fuck," Nick says, a little shaky, a lot turned on, and Brandon has to kiss him again, fierce and wanting, before he helps yank the shirt down his arms and off over his wrists.

"God, Nick," Brandon says, "Leds— I want, I really fucking want to blow you," and it's so gratifying to be able to just say that, and to feel the way Nick goes tense and expectant, pressed up against him. Fuck, if Brandon doesn't get his act together soon he's going to wind up going down on one of his best friends right there in front of his front door.

Which, okay, he's not exactly opposed to that, but probably his bed will be more comfortable.

"Um, not here though," Brandon adds, and wow, that was smooth. It's a wonder he ever gets laid at all.

"Right, bedroom," Nick agrees, and turns towards Brandon's room. Brandon takes a second to admire the view, he's only human, but he's also only half a step behind him, which means by the time they make it over the twenty or so feet it takes to reach the bed they're side by side. That makes it even easier for him to steal another kiss or three before they tumble back on top of the sheets.

Nick stretches out, sprawled on a diagonal, his head just below Brandon's pillows and the comforter rumpled and tangled underneath him. Brandon has to get a hand on his own dick and think some deeply unsexy thoughts before he can crawl onto the bed to cover him, kissing him again while he grinds down into Nick, arousal a low burn in his stomach and at the base of his spine.

"You could just rub off on me like this," Nick says after a minute, because yeah, Brandon's still rocking into him, sucking a hickey into Nick's neck because he's wanted to do that forever, and fuck it. "I mean, whatever you want is good, just- fuck, I want, Saader, please."

Brandon bites his lip, because rubbing off on Nick is totally doing it for him, and Nick saying that is doing it for him even more, but he was telling the truth when he'd said he wanted his mouth on Nick, wants to get him off. So even though his dick raises a fairly compelling protest about the very idea of moving, he slides down the bed a little and gets his hand on Nick's cock.

"Fuck," Nick says again, with some fervor, and "Oh— fuck, Brandon," he adds when Brandon wraps his fingers around the base and then tilts forward to lick around the head, sucking lightly, experimenting to see what Nick likes.

Nick likes it every way that Brandon can think to try on him, it turns out, and by the time Brandon hits a rhythm, sucking and stroking him, just sloppy enough that everything's wet and easy, Nick's pretty much given up on vocalizing anything more than low moans. He occasionally gets as far as Brandon's name, and it's so fucking inappropriate, but the occasional "Saader, fuck" that he manages to say clearly is actually turning Brandon on as much as when Nick uses his first name. He really needs to never, ever actually think of this when anyone else calls him by a nickname, but when it's Leds--

"Everything you're doing is so hot," Brandon pulls off long enough to say, which is maybe too nakedly honest, but jeez, he's got Leddy's dick in his mouth, he's pretty sure anyone would excuse him from being able to form much in the way of coherent thought.

"Holy shit, Brandon," Leddy says again, not long after, voice shaking as he comes, clutching at Brandon's shoulders. He’s probably leaving marks and Brandon does not care, even if he's probably going to get chirped about those later. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and collapses down onto the mattress, face pressed into Nick's hip, breathing hard, frantically trying to reassemble some semblance of thought.

He just gave Leddy a blowjob. He's so turned on it fucking hurts.

He just gave Nick Leddy a blowjob, and the more he tries to reconcile that thought, the more absolutely surreal it seems.

"Will you, fuck, come here," Leds manages to say after a minute, and he sounds out of breath and all kinds of wrecked, and Jesus fuck, Brandon is so into that.

He whines in the back of his throat and lets his hips drag against the mattress, just trying to get some pressure on his dick while his brain tries to come back online. Nick makes an impatient noise, sitting up enough to grab Brandon by his upper arms and drag him up the bed until he's lying right on top of him again. Brandon tries to push aside the part of him that's really into Nick manhandling him like that, but all he manages to do is make embarrassing noises into the side of Nick's throat while he rolls his hips, dick dragging against his thigh. He would’ve thought Nick would be too sensitive still for this to be all that pleasant for him, but Nick's hands are steady where they're touching him, one spread wide over his back, palm flat against his spine, and the other grabbing at his ass, encouraging him to rock down into him, practically fucking humping Nick's leg.

"God, you're hot," Nick says, low and intense, and Brandon finds an extra scrap of energy somewhere, lifts his head up to kiss him again, because fuck, if they only get this night then he wants to do everything.

* * *

Brandon is not a morning person, which means he's not the quickest to wake up even at the best of times. Waking up with Nick Leddy in his bed falls somewhere in the middle, because he actually does have a moment of confusion where it takes him a couple seconds to work out what’s different, and then he remembers, and his stomach sinks. Admittedly the fact he's not alone in his bed but also isn’t wearing anything makes a lot more sense when he remembers exactly what they'd done last night.

Brandon reaches out of the bed carefully, the sheet slipping down over his shoulders, and manages to grab his jeans from the pile of clothing left messily on the floor, digging through the pocket to find his phone. The battery is nearly dead, but he can see it's just after 6am, so hopefully neither of them actually needs to be awake yet. He has vague memories of Leds setting an alarm last night - or maybe earlier in the morning, fuck - whenever it was, after they'd worn themselves out and were about to crash.

Nick reaches out for him, his arm coming out from under the blankets and flailing about blindly till he catches Brandon's forearm; he hasn't actually bothered to open his eyes yet.

"Go back to sleep, 's too early," Nick mutters, tugging Brandon closer, and it's probably another short-sighted decision, but fuck it, Brandon's going to do this, too.

He drops his phone back onto the nightstand, lets his jeans fall back onto the carpet, and slides back under the covers. He’s about to wrap himself around Nick again when a horrible thought intrudes; Nick might not even have been awake enough to know who was in bed with him, he probably shouldn't—

"Saader," Nick says, "c'mon," and okay, so maybe he does.

Brandon mentally shrugs, and then goes for it; he shuffles in closer, rolling onto his stomach and wrapping an arm around Leds, hand settling low over his ribs, feeling his chest rise and fall regularly as his breathing slows.

"Better," Leds says, slow and sleepy, and he reaches over and pats Brandon's lower back approvingly. That sensation sparks through Brandon's nerve endings, and he's suddenly a lot more in favor of being awake. And kind of wants Nick to move his hand south. He waits a few seconds to see if Nick’s interested in starting anything, but a couple more hours sleep — especially after a late night — is its own enticement, really.

* * *

They were both tired enough to fall back asleep, it turned out, even though Brandon hadn’t been sure he was going to be able to. It's hard enough to not tie himself in mental knots over whether this was a good idea, over letting himself think about how this could change their friendship, let alone how Leds leaving is going to change everything else. It's also pretty difficult to not let himself just keep on thinking with his dick, because fuck is that ever tempting, even when he knows better.

There's more light outside — apparently neither of them thought to actually close the curtains, whoops — when Brandon wakes up again. He's overly warm, actually, with the sunlight streaming in, the heavy blanket over them and Nick a warm weight pressed right up against him. Leds' phone is the first one he can reach on the nightstand — it's even plugged in, so he had clearly woken up at some point and done that, too; Brandon doesn't remember it— and it's still pretty early. Maybe an hour before the alarm that's set for them to get ready for practice. It's not until he's dropped the phone back onto the table that he realizes he should at least be glad there's no news yet. Or maybe it would be better to know; it's looking less and less like this is a false alarm, and that's— that’s exactly how he got himself into this situation, isn't it?

Nick wakes up at the sound of the phone hitting the table, one hand reaching automatically for his phone, the other tightening on Brandon's hip. He's not exactly complaining.

"Message?" Nick asks, and Brandon can feel the tension in his body and hear it in his voice, and abruptly feels worse, because this sucks so much more for Leds.

"No," Brandon says, and then has to clear his throat and try again. "No, nothing yet, I just. Wanted to check the time."

"Oh," Nick says, a little vaguely, but his jaw isn't clenched anymore and his shoulders sink back against the mattress, and Brandon feels himself relaxing more in sympathy. "Right. Uh. What time is it?"

"We've got an hour," Brandon starts to say, and he means to say, "before practice," he really does, but Nick grins at him and rolls over, wriggling till he's get a knee either side of Brandon's hips and his hands are running up Brandon's sides, weight setting heavy and deliberate over his hips.

All Brandon can say to that is "Um," and "Yes," before Nick leans in to nuzzle at his jaw and raise an eyebrow, silently checking if kissing is still on the table, which of course it is, and then "Fuck, yes" which is barely audible, muttered against Nick’s mouth.

They make out for a while, longer than they had the night before, at least. Brandon hasn't done this for what now seems like a really long time, and he's surprised by how much he’d missed that. It's so much of what he'd wanted and not really dared to imagine, but the ticking clock in the back of his mind, the part of his brain that automatically tracks ice time and game time and lets him estimate just how much of either has actually passed, that's reminding him that they really do have a hard deadline here, and if this is the last time he gets Nick in bed then he really needs to make the most of it.

"Hey," Brandon says eventually, mumbling into the side of Nick's throat, nuzzling against the line of hair where his beard starts to thin out, kissing his neck and working his way back up to his mouth as he goes. "You're, like. Not hungover, or anything, right?"

"Nope," Nick answers eventually, voice higher than usual, stuttering a little because Brandon's hands are venturing further afield the longer he's awake. Having Nick on top of him just means it’s easier to reach absolutely everything.

"I want to, can I—” Brandon starts to say, and he knows it's dumb to be coy about this; he's old enough to say it and to do it, for fuckssake.

It probably shouldn't be awkward to ask someone whose dick you've already sucked if you can do it again, but apparently it is. He's just going to have to power through it. Although maybe that'll work better if he eases into it. He settles one hand on Nick’s hip, drags the knuckles of his other hand over his stomach, down from his navel into the coarser hair around his dick, just grazing his skin.

"You want my mouth or my hands?" he manages to ask, and he's pretty sure that's clear enough.

"Fuck," Nick says, and he rocks forward minutely, pressing into Brandon's hands, letting all his weight go onto Brandon for a long minute before he visibly steels himself and rolls off. "Both, Saader, please," he adds, and Brandon can't move fast enough.

Brandon trails kisses over his skin as he moves down Nick’s body, fingertips and lips dragging against his skin, letting the covers slide down over his back and shoving them unheeded onto the floor by the bed. It's not like he hasn't seen pretty much everything before; you don't exactly look in the locker room but it's hard not to see sometimes, but having permission to linger, to touch— that's really fucking doing it for him.

He manages to settle into a comfortable position pretty fast, gets his forearm braced low across Nick's hips to hold him steady before he gets his mouth on his dick again, and the way Nick moans at that somehow turns him on even more. He's a little clumsy; a lot out of practice, really, but Nick definitely doesn't mind, and Brandon is pretty sure that he's going to come again in record time. He pulls off for a moment, more to settle himself than to let Leds have any kind of a break, and that's when he notices the way his thighs are stippled pink with beard burn from last night, and shit, that's hot too; Brandon has to rub his face against the thin skin there again, just to hear the breathless moan it prompts.

"Fuck, you're gonna-- Saader, come on," Nick manages to say, and he's so close, Brandon has to dive back in, working him over with one hand and his mouth until Nick goes tense all over and comes, giving Brandon just enough warning that he doesn’t choke embarrassingly.

"Sorry about the, uh," Nick gestures vaguely, encompassing the faint ache in Brandon's jaw and the way they're both covered in sweat and come, filthy in the most satisfying way possible. It's taking everything Brandon has not to just rub one out right then and there. "What can I do? Or do you want to shower?" He glances over to his phone, checking in. "There's time."

Brandon's probably going to come shamefully fast as soon as Leds gets a hand on him, and it makes him reckless, that and knowing this is probably his only chance to get this. "Go down on me?" he asks, because what kind of idiot is going to turn down a blowjob if there's one on the table.

"Oh yeah, I can do that," Nick says, and he does, enthusiastically; a little sloppy besides, but fuck is Brandon ever not complaining because it feels so good.

It's even better when Leds gets his hands under his thighs, groping his ass a little before pulling back to rub his face against Brandon's inner thighs, and oh, now he definitely understands why Nick wasn't complaining about the beard burn last night.

"Fuck," he whines, and a few minutes later, more desperately, "fuck, Leds, I can't--" and it turns out what he can't do is actually finish that sentence before the orgasm hits him, leaving him breathless and panting and totally useless for long minutes afterward.

"Warn a guy next time," Nick says, poking a finger into the tight muscle of his calf, head pillowed on Brandon's quads because apparently he's also too wiped out to move much further.

It should maybe be funny, the way his hair is standing on end and his lips are pink and a little swollen, the way they're both just completely fucking wrecked, but mostly all Brandon's able to do is lie there and want to nap and then maybe get a do over just so he can have all of this again.

Maybe this would've been easier if the sex had been bad, he thinks, and scowls up at the ceiling.

"Are you seriously falling asleep again?" Nick asks, and Brandon can hear the amusement in his voice. It's warm and way too comforting, and Brandon can't really resist how much he likes it.

"Five more minutes," Brandon mumbles, letting his eyes close. It's actually a little chilly now, lying there with no blankets and sweat cooling on his skin, but it's probably going to take him a minute or two to care about that.

"Sure, if you want to explain why we're late to practice," Nick says, but his hand's gentle when he runs his fingers through Brandon's hair, smoothing it back away from his face, scratching lightly at his scalp.

"Fuuuuck," Brandon whines, but he sits up anyway. There's enough time for them to both shower and dress, and they can swing by Leds' place to get anything he can't just borrow from Brandon too.

* * *

Practice is practice, same as usual. They’re still trying to let all the new guys find a place to settle, waiting for Q and the other coaches to see what works and what they like the look of. Brandon's drawing in with Hoss and Tazer again for a few rushes, which is pretty fucking fun; Leds is cycling in and out on the third pairing, which is also par for the course, and— and Brandon's got enough to focus on as it is, he doesn't need to distract himself on the ice.

He gets dressed after in record time — if nothing else, it means no one seems to notice anything worth chirping him over — but Nick's done pretty quickly after him as well, just talking to Duncs and Hammer in the corner while rubbing a towel over the back of his head where his hair's still dripping down his collar. Brandon bites the inside of his mouth and reminds himself not to stare like a weirdo.

Nick turns back to face him about then and catches him looking, shoots him a quick grin and then comes over to his stall, natural as anything.

"Want a ride, Saader?" he asks, and that's exactly the invitation that Brandon was hoping for.

"Yeah," he says, and grabs the rest of his things, only stopping long enough to say a few words to some of the guys who're still changing.

Nick drives them back to his and Shawzy’s apartment without really asking for Brandon's input; he seems to know that Brandon would've protested if he'd actually wanted to. They pick up food on the way, and Brandon's reminded again of just how much time they've spent together, because Leds knows his regular lunch order without having to ask, and if he was doing this by himself he'd know exactly what Leds wants, too. Sure, they're creatures of habit, and their job only encourages that, but if he was picking up food for Shawzy, or Krugs, or, like, Bicks and Benny... he's less certain, for them.

They wind up on the couch where they've hung out half a hundred times, and in silent agreement, eat their lunch first before actually saying much of anything else. Nick puts the TV on for background noise, but neither of them is actually watching it.

"Right," Nick says, after Brandon's folded his sandwich wrapper into increasingly small squares and before he can start tearing it up instead. Guiltily, he sets it down on the coffee table and shifts his weight, facing Nick on the couch. "So, this morning—" he starts to say, and Brandon knows this is where they talk about it maturely and decide they should be adults and, like. Never mention it again. Except instead, Nick is leaning in and murmuring, "Fuck it, we can talk later, right?" and Brandon agrees in a rush, stumbling over his consonants because slow, easy, afternoon sex on the couch sounds like it's exactly his speed right now.

* * *

"At least they're not going to trade me inside the division," Leds says afterward, like it's a thought that just follows naturally and not literally the worst pillow talk Brandon has ever heard, which he tells him.

Nick shrugs, and leans back into the upholstery. Fuck, Brandon's never going to be able to sit on this couch again without thinking of this.

"They're not, though. And, like. I think it would be too hard."

Brandon's not entirely sure what Leds means, at this point.

"To come back that often?" He asks, venturing a guess.

Nick shrugs.

"Yeah, but also. You know. I mean, I guess that thing about dating within the division is probably worse when you're playing than for fans."

Brandon opens his mouth to ask what that's supposed to mean, exactly, but he can't put the words together. Nick seems a lot more settled this morning than he had done last night, and Brandon doesn't want to think it's just getting laid, although that probably had to have helped, but— they're really clearly not on the same page right now.

Nick squints at him and makes a face that Brandon is pretty sure he should be ashamed of finding attractive.

"Did you— wait, what did you think we were doing?" Nick asks, sitting up and holding Brandon's gaze.

"...fooling around to get this out of our systems?" Brandon offers, because that is what he thought; that was his fucking best case scenario every time he'd actually thought about making a move and then decided it was a terrible idea.

Leds punches his thigh, hard, and fucking ow, he's clearly been friends with Shawzy for too long.

"Okay, for what it's worth, when I hit on you last night what I meant was 'I'm getting traded, but I'll call you and I want to date you.' Um. If you want, that is."

"Oh." Brandon says, feeling really, really dumb. "I— yeah, I want that."

"Fuck, Saader," Nick says, "That was a bad fucking moment there."

"Sorry," Brandon says, a little defensively. "You should maybe, I don't know, have said so sooner."

Nick makes a face at him.

"Okay, it wasn't my finest moment, either. I guess could've handled that better. But I want to, um. Try the dating thing. With you."

"Me too," Brandon says, because he doesn't want to leave Nick hanging, but he doesn't exactly have a lot of experience here. This could get really fucked up fast if they're not careful. "Uh, this doesn't mean I'm not still gonna hit you if you're on another team, though," he adds, because he's played against friends before, and that was a little weird sometimes but mostly normal; he's not sure what it'll be like when you've done more than just making out over dumb spin-the-bottle dares with someone on the opposing team.

"Duh, but you'll have to catch me first," Nick says, shrugging like it's no big deal at all.

"I can totally take you," Brandon says. He's confident he could; they're a good match in more ways than one.

"Right," Nick scoffs, and then he grabs at Brandon again, trying to get him in a headlock, and that escalates until they nearly roll off the couch, and Nick has to put a foot down on the carpet to brace them both.

Brandon figures that since they're being all mature and shit about this, then he may as well stop pretending like this isn't getting him hot again, and he gets a hand on the back of Nick's head, pulling him down for another kiss.

They make out on the couch for a while longer, until Nick winds up yawning, and that sets Brandon off too, and with only a little delay for some more gratuitous groping, they move back to Nick's bedroom to nap.

Judging by the angle of the light coming through his windows, it's not all that much later in the afternoon when Brandon wakes up again. The comforter is tangled around his legs; either he or Leds was restless enough to push it that low, although at least it's not cold without it. Nick is sitting up, leaning back against the headboard as he sets a half-full glass of water back down on the nightstand, and that must've been what woke Brandon up.

"Hey," he says sleepily, "what time is it?"

"Um," Nick says, and Brandon is abruptly, horribly awake all at once. Nick's phone is in his hand, too, and Brandon didn't even remember him bringing it into the bedroom when they'd got back after practice. "So. I guess I'm an Islander now?"

"Oh," Brandon says, feeling dumb and very uncertain. "When did you-- do you need to call your family? Your agent?"

Nick looks sort of dumbfounded as well. "I just heard, I should- yeah, I'm gonna do that. Uh, now. They've got me flights later today."

"Right," Brandon says, and he feels very much in the way. After dragging the possibility out for so long, this is happening awfully fast. "Congratulations, yeah? They're lucky to have you."

"They traded for Boychuk from Boston as well," Nick says, still fidgeting with his phone. "He sent me a text, too. And so did Tavares."

"You know some of the guys there, right?" Brandon says, because they never really overlapped at the national team training camps until the last Olympics, but he knows all the Minnesota guys are pretty tight.

"Yeah," Nick says, frowning as he clearly tries to bring up more of the roster from memory. They really don't see the Isles often at all, Brandon doesn't remember a huge amount about them himself.

"Well," Brandon says, bumping his shoulder lightly, not letting himself lean into Nick's warmth. He's going to have a lot to do very quickly, and it'll be better if Brandon just gets out of the way right now. "At least you know. Way to move up on the world, Ledpipe."

"Yeah," Nick says again, and Brandon can see that he's adjusting already, that he's excited about this too, because fuck, it is a huge opportunity for him. Going from where he is to--

"You've got to be the top pairing there now," Brandon says, thinking it through. "That's pretty great. More minutes, maybe the PK..."

Nick shrugs a little, leaning back into Brandon. It's nice, even though he can feel the tension in his shoulders, can see him starting to make plans. "I guess. We'll see how it goes when we're on the ice. Boychuk seems like a good guy."

"Cool," Brandon says, and that feels completely inane, so he slides out of bed and starts grabbing clothes to get dressed. "I guess you've got last minute packing and stuff, right? Can I do anything to help?"

"Um," Nick says, following suit, and then taking off the Hawks workout shirt he's just pulled on to throw it to Brandon. "Uh, this is yours, I think." It is.

"Thanks," Brandon says, and then adds, "guess this'll be easier when you've got a different logo on all your shirts, huh?"

Nick goes still for a moment and Brandon thinks he's misjudged horribly, but then he laughs, the really open, helpless laugh that warms Brandon from the inside out, and just says, "Yeah, it probably will be. And, uh, I need to call a bunch of people, but if you want to stick around and, like. Drive me to the airport?"

Brandon swallows hard, because, yeah, this is a huge opportunity for Nick, and he's happy for him, he really is, but... it's still tough. "Yeah," he says. "I can do that."

* * *

Brandon retreats to the kitchen for a while, taking his phone with him and catching up on the group texts and WhatsApp messages that have started flying around with the trade, closing the bedroom door behind him so that Nick can have some privacy to call people too. No one on the team is surprised, per se, but it still feels shocking, even when they'd all known it was coming. Especially since Nick isn't going to have time to say goodbye properly, or not to anyone but Brandon, at least.

He texts Smitty and Shawzer to let them know he's taking Leds to the airport; Shawzy's out somewhere with Chaunette and just sends him back a string of sadfaces and instructions to tell Leds to eat his vegetables and not take candy from strangers, which is sweet, by Andy's standards at least.

Sooner than Brandon's expecting, Nick emerges, pacing around the apartment and grabbing all the last-minute bits and pieces he hadn't already put in a bag. His suitcase is packed and has been since Friday, Shawzer can obviously take care of anything he's leaving in the fridge, and after he's done one last pass through the bathroom Nick pronounces himself done, his backpack stuffed unevenly when he drops it beside the kitchen counter.

"I guess Shawzer can, like. Get movers in for the rest of my stuff after I get an apartment?" he says, clearly thinking out loud, looking around the room as if he's confirming he's not leaving anything critical. Brandon's stomach hurts.

"Yeah, probably," Brandon agrees; it won't be too hard to arrange and the team will most likely take care of it for him anyway.

There's a beat of silence then, and it drags on too long. Brandon can't think of anything else to say, and he can't seem to take his eyes off Nick either.

"I think I've got everything," Nick says again, and then he's moving towards Brandon, stepping into his space, pushing him back up against the wall beside his bedroom door. "Almost everything."

"Um," Brandon says, licking his lips, a little nervous, but also appreciating the way that Nick watches him do so. "Good?"

"Shawzy won't be back before we have to leave," Nick says. "And I don't know about you, but I don't really feel like watching TV until then."

" _Oh_ ," Brandon says, and embarrassingly his voice hits an entirely different pitch then, or maybe that's the way that Nick's slid a hand up under his shirt and is trailing his fingertips up and down his side. Brandon's a little ticklish, actually, not that he'd admit that under pain of death or eternal chirping.

"I'm setting an alarm first," Brandon adds, and he even sounds breathless to his own ears, fumbling the phone back out of his pocket and setting it for 50 minutes away - he's going to give them a safety margin just in case.

"Sure thing, Man-Child," Nick says easily, like he's not the one who's about to have his life turned upside down entirely.

"Maybe," Brandon says, walking backwards into Nick's bedroom, fast; trying not to trip over his own feet or anything in the way, "don't call me that when you've got your hand there, fuck, Leds."

"What about here?" Nick says, and he's definitely going all in on distracting himself and Brandon from what's about to happen, getting both hands under Brandon's sweats, dragging them down and over his ass, groping him shamelessly.

"There's good," Brandon manages to say eventually, hands busy yanking at Nick's clothes.

They have to actually stop for a couple of seconds when Brandon's t-shirt gets stuck halfway over his head, the collar caught under his chin, and then Nick's jeans get stuck around his knees because he'd actually put sneakers on.

"And you call me a rookie," Brandon says, sitting on the edge of the bed, butt-naked and stupidly turned on and waiting for Nick to hurriedly unlace his shoes, for fuckssake.

"I was distracted," Nick protests, but it's only half-hearted, and they're both well and truly distracted moments later anyway, as Nick finally manages to kick his pants off and starts to move back toward the bed and Brandon.

If this is going to be the last time they see each other in— a while, Brandon didn't work it out exactly, he just had enough time to check that they're playing the Isles in December, and who knows what'll happen then, but — if this is maybe the last time, then Brandon wants it to be as perfect as possible. That doesn't mean he doesn't make fun of Nick for trying to kiss him before he takes off his socks, but it does make him more conscious of how he must look as he lets Nick push him back into the bed, sinking into the mattress as Nick settles on top of him, handsy and impatient.

It's hard to stop thinking about it, actually, wanting to remember every scrap of this moment when they've only been doing this for like a day anyway; everything is new and different every time he touches Nick, and it's kind of fucking with his head.

"Brandon," Nick says, and Brandon realizes when he hears his name that it's maybe the second or third time Nick's said it; he really is getting caught up in his own head too much right now. "Hey, you still want this,right?"

"Yeah," Brandon says, and reaches up to kiss Nick again, greedy and desperate. "Yeah, I want you, please," and that's not exactly what Nick was asking, or at least not how he was asking, but he seems to have worked out what Brandon means, because the kissing gets hotter and somehow dirtier, until Brandon is gasping into Nick's mouth and squirming underneath him with increasing urgency.

"Hey," Nick says, tearing his mouth away, panting around the words, "I wanna, can I finger you?"

Brandon's not sure he's going to last long enough for that, but it sounds good to him, and he nods frantically, manages to say "Yes, yeah, come on," shifting under Nick, letting Nick's hands guide him, pushing his knee up and out, and he hooks his ankle around the back of Nick's calf, feeling open and exposed and ridiculously good. Nick's hand on his ass is nothing new; they'd crossed the casual touching line a long time before falling into bed, but Nick's thumb rubbing over the indent at the base of his spine, pressing in to the thin skin and then dragging down with intent... that's pretty new.

"Hang on, I have, uh," Nick straightens up, reaches for the nightstand and then stops, reddening. "I don't think I packed it," and he fumbles through the drawer while Brandon bites his lip and tries not to laugh.

"Ha," Nick says, and drops a small bottle of lube onto Brandon's stomach — it bounces — before he shifts back to his earlier position.

Brandon's actually got both hands free — Nick had shoved them away when he'd tried to even up the score earlier — so he flicks the cap open helpfully, holding it out for Nick.

"Thank you," Nick says, and without further ado, he's got his hands back on Brandon's ass, tracing around his rim, fingertips dragging wetly, making Brandon inhale sharply and stiffen.

"Hey, relax," Nick says, petting his hip soothingly, and that's easy for him to say, Brandon thinks, but then he's carefully pushing first one and then two fingers inside, and Brandon can't actually hold on to a coherent thought long enough to express it, or to second-guess his reactions, unable to do much of anything more than moan encouragement as he shakes apart under Nick's hands.

When he comes, it’s so hard that Brandon thinks he might have whited out for a moment or two. Nick is apparently _really_ fucking good with his hands, and has definitely done this before. 

"Uh, wow," he says hazily, trying to remember how to move his arms. He's not going anywhere today, he should be getting Leds off, making it all about him instead. It's hard to actually queue that message from the back of his brain to actually make a move, though; he just wants to lie there and wallow in how good he feels.

Nick rolls carefully on top of him then, arranging his knees so he's resting evenly over Brandon's lower body, not touching his dick, which Brandon appreciates because he's oversensitive this soon after coming, even without much more than the light hand Nick had had on him. 

"Hi," Nick says, grinning down at him. "That was fun."

"Me too," Brandon says, and then realizes how dumb that sounds. "I mean. Yeah. Uh. I think you broke me."

Nick laughs at him, and then leans in for a kiss, which Brandon is happy to give him; he would've been perfectly happy to do pretty much anything Nick could have suggested, not that this is, like. A bad option, in any way. 

"What do you want to do?" Brandon asks eventually, lips buzzing, dragging his mouth over Nick's cheek and along his jawline before diving back in to kiss him again. "I can blow you again? Or jerk you off? We've got time."

"Mmm," Nick says, thinking it over, letting his weight settle harder onto Brandon, squirming against him almost unconsciously. He's very obviously hard and it's making Brandon wish he were close enough to still being a teenager that he could get it up again this quick too. "I really like your hands, Saader," he says after a moment, as if he's been wrestling with the question.

Brandon's hands like being on Nick, too, so that works out very nicely for him. He does have to grab Nick's shoulders first to hold him still for a moment, hips shifting before he encourages Nick to roll over onto the other side of the bed, so he's under Brandon and entirely within easy reach of his hands.

"You like this?" he asks, nuzzling under Nick's chin, breathing hot and damp over the scruffy line of hair on his neck, fingers curling far too lightly around Nick's cock, teasing him with a slow drag of just his fingertips.

"Saader," Nick whines, trying to buck up against him, going faintly pink along his cheekbones, breathing fast with his mouth open, teeth digging into his lip. Brandon does his best to file this image away in his memory; he's going to want to think about it later and he definitely doesn't want to forget a moment. "Brandon, come on," he says, on the verge of begging already; getting Brandon off has clearly got him even more wound up than Brandon had realized.

"I got you," Brandon promises, and tightens his grip, speeding his hand up. 

"Can you— wetter, please?" Nick manages, and Brandon frees a hand to scrabble about in the tangled sheets to find the bottle of lube, flicking it open one-handed and spreading some over his palm before getting it back on Nick. He tightens his grip a little more, too, and the first stroke like that makes Nick arch up in appreciation, a pure shot of adrenaline right to everything that turns Brandon on.

"Fuck," Brandon says, knowing he's staring kind of obviously now, but hell, what else should he be looking at, it's not like Nick's going to give him a hard time about it.

He keeps going, keeping his grip even and fast and smooth, and it feels like it's only moments later that Nick is choking out something that sounds like Brandon's name and coming all over himself.

"Okay, so that. Was better than I would have expected," Nick says eventually.

Brandon isn't sure if he should be slightly insulted or not, but he settles for just collapsing onto Nick's chest and rubbing his face into Nick's chest hair. It should be super gross, probably, but he likes how it feels, and Nick gets a hand up to card through Brandon's hair, twining his fingers around the longer strands at the back of his neck. Brandon could probably do with a haircut soon, maybe.

"I liked it," Brandon says simply, when it seems like maybe Nick was waiting for him to say something. "We should do this again."

"Yep," Nick says, curling his hand around the back of Brandon's neck and continuing to pet him. No one's done that to him before, he doesn't think, but it feels good so he doesn't bother moving or commenting.

They lie there like that for a while longer, and Brandon's just starting to think about how maybe he should figure out if he can open a window or something to air the room out, because it's super obvious exactly what they've been doing in there, and it's not exactly outside the realm of possibility that Shawzer's going to wind up in this room sometime soon.

Before he can actually say anything like that, Brandon's phone alarm goes off from in the middle of the pile of his clothing, and with a sigh he rolls off Nick, gets to his feet and starts getting dressed. 

"You should shower real quick," he says, feeling like the intelligent parts of his brain are slowly starting to wake up again. "I left enough time; I'll strip the bed and throw the sheets in your— in Shawzy's machine to wash."

"That was, uh. Forward-thinking," Nick says after a moment, slow like he's still having trouble getting his head together. It's both flattering and makes Brandon wonder if he's maybe made a mistake. They've moved so fast, here.

"Seemed like the move to make," Brandon says, with a shrug, and starts tugging the sheet untucked, bundling it up in his arms. "Go, shower, unless you want to smell gross the whole way to New York."

"Thanks," Nick says quietly, and leans over to kiss Brandon, hard and fast, before walking bare-assed towards the shower. Brandon would be lying if he said he didn't watch him go.

* * *

Neither of them says much on the drive to the airport, and when they get there Brandon just double-checks Nick has all his bags before saying goodbye, giving him an awkward wave because they can't really do anything else in public.

It's a quiet drive back to his place after that, and he finds himself wandering around his apartment, stuck for something to do. Settling in front of the TV doesn't appeal at all, and there's only so much working out he can do without over-doing it. He winds up spending half the evening cleaning and rearranging his kitchen cabinets, so at least by the time Nick sends him a message saying he's in New York and that the flight was boring but fine— well, Brandon's kitchen hasn't been that organized since he moved in.

Practice the next morning feels somewhat muted to start; no one's joking or throwing balls of hockey tape at each other or making dumb jokes in the dressing room, or at least not until Sharpy deliberately starts antagonizing Tazer in what is pretty clearly a move to break the mood. It works, too, because even though Tazer has to know that’s what he’s doing, he still bites on it. Sharpy gave up trying to prank Brandon after like three months, but he'll still go after Toews as often as he does the newer guys. Brandon figures at this point it's basically a tradition if nothing else.

Andy gives Brandon a couple of sideways looks through the morning, and is alarmingly nice, which actually makes Brandon more uncomfortable than being chirped outright would. He doesn't think Shawzy knows anything, just that he and Nick are good friends, so the consideration is nice, if mostly unnecessary. He thinks he's maybe imagining it until they're finishing up the shootout drill and he, Krugs and Shawzy are the only three left on the ice; Kruger and Shaw practicing face offs and Brandon working on his shot from the goal line along the boards. By the time he's ready to call it a day Brandon skates over to rock-paper-scissors over who's clearing up the pucks like normal, but Shawzy just says, "I've got it, don't worry."

Which, yeah, is nice, but— Brandon sighs, and Krugs just punches his arm and looks sympathetic. Which means Brandon must look pretty pathetic, and that's definitely embarrassing. He invites himself over to Smitty's place for a Game of Thrones marathon, and that helps, or at least it makes things start feeling more normal again.

* * *

It's just under a week of practices and media and gearing everything up again after that, and then the season proper begins and it does, thankfully, just feel like his life is going on as normal. Mostly. The Hawks are starting on the road again, another close one in Dallas that Corey keeps them in and Brandon comes out of feeling like they've stolen the points, not that he's complaining of course. Playing spoiler is always fun.

They've got a day off between that and their own home opener, and Brandon doesn't even need to check the schedule to remember that the Isles have a home-and-home with Carolina. He doesn't even pretend to himself like he's going to do anything that night but watch, although he doesn't mention it to Nick, just messages him a "good luck" that afternoon, times it so he'll see it after his nap. He even remembers to account for time zones, which is not actually a given, considering how often he's messed that up with other people.

"Thanks :) Nice work last night," Nick messages back, and Brandon is obscurely pleased that Nick is still keeping up with them a bit, too; it has to have felt strange.

It's equally strange in a way to watch the game that evening, to see Nick in a different jersey; skating hard and looking exactly like Brandon's always seen him — until he's crashing into a hug to celebrate a goal with a bunch of guys that Brandon doesn't know.

Brandon stays up long enough to see the Islanders win, and then it's more than time for him to get to bed himself. He doesn't let himself dwell on his feelings; that isn't going to get anyone anywhere, and it wouldn't make a difference even if it did. He does send a congratulations to Nick, because he's more than earned that, and — after a quick WhatsApp conversation earlier in the week had descended into terrible come-ons, and proven that neither he nor Nick was actually much good at sexting, but that they were willing to try — he adds a second message, going into not-actually-that-much detail about what he'd like to do if Nick was actually in arm’s reach.

It's probably a little more honest than he intends it to be; wanting to curl up in bed and just talk the game through with Nick isn't exactly the sexiest thing he could have suggested, but he'd gotten used to decompressing that way last season, and he can already tell he's going to miss that almost as much as they're going to miss him on the ice. The idea of mixing anything more intimate into that slow, often sleepy conversation makes Brandon feel warm all over, makes him wish they'd actually done that instead of every time they'd fallen asleep too close on the same bed, or pulled back at the last possible moment from a touch that was just on the wrong side of plausible deniability. It feels like a multiplicity of chances lost.

...then again, the fact that they're not teammates anymore is pretty much the only reason they'd let themselves even get this far, Brandon reminds himself.

* * *

A couple of weeks into the season they've got a day off in common, between home games in both Chicago and New York. Brandon's been messaging Nick about as much as ever, mostly just their normal back-and-forth; trash-talk and complaining about too-long lines at Dunks and running out of groceries halfway through a homestand or strategizing for fantasy football - Brandon's determined to do better there this year, too - plus whatever other random shit comes up in their lives. They haven't talked on the phone since Nick left, sticking to text and email, forwarding on the dumb links their friends send around in group messages.

Brandon's been reluctant to actually take the first step to call Nick, and the way they've been texting just like normal has been reinforcing that, making it easy to just stick to texts, so that Nick's a little green text bubble on his phone and Brandon doesn't have to think too hard about what they're doing.

That doesn't mean he misses him any less, and when Nick shoots him a quick text that afternoon, "hey, you got any plans tonight?" Brandon replies with what's probably embarrassing haste, "nope, you?"

"Call me before dinner?" Nick sends back.

Brandon does wonder for a paranoid split-second if this is maybe the point where Nick says it's too hard, or that something's changed and they need to stick to just being friends - that Brandon needs to stop thinking about touching him again, which he possibly spends a little too much time thinking about - but he manages to logic himself right back down from that ledge. Nick's not the kind of asshole who'd lead up to that without warning.

"Hour from now work for you?" Brandon sends back, and Nick just sends him a series of smiley face emojis in response.

Brandon sends back what even he has to admit is a fairly sub-par chirp about Nick's grasp of the English language and then cues up an episode of Suits on the DVR. He'll just watch this first. He's just calling Nick, it's not- it’s not a thing. It's not something he needs to get wound up about.

He might have to watch this episode again later, though.

* * *

"Hey," Brandon says, as Nick picks up, saying, "Hello," almost formally, even though Brandon knows full well his name comes up on the caller ID.

"Hi," Nick repeats back to him, sounding just like normal, voice warm and immediate in Brandon's ears.

There's a pause then, as they both wait for the other to say something, and then wind up talking over each other.

"No, wait, you go ahead," Brandon says, interrupting himself mid-sentence. He hadn't really had anything critical to say, anyway, just wanted to rush past the part where this is awkward because they're literally just calling to talk, not planning dinner or anything else.

"I was going to ask," Nick says, "Have you been over to our- to Andy's place recently? He's telling me the dogs have learned a new trick, but I told him I'm not believing it till he sends video."

Nick corrects himself so smoothly that the misstep almost doesn't register, but Brandon's relieved to hear it, even if it's shitty of him; he's glad Nick hasn't moved on so fast or easily as he's trying to act. Not that he shouldn't, just. It satisfies a small part inside Brandon's head that he's not exactly proud of, at least.

"The shaking hands thing?" Brandon guesses, because he has been over at Shawzy and Chaunette's a couple times this week. Andy claims he has to make sure Brandon's eating right, which is hilarious, because Brandon is actually very responsible about that, and doesn’t cheat on his meal plan anywhere near as much as Andy does. He'd wound up making dinner over there for all three of them at least once, too.

"Wow, really?" Nick says.

Brandon smothers a laugh and shifts on the couch, stretching out, keeping the phone tucked up against his ear. "Yeah, no, they're about 50:50 on actually remembering to shake. Mostly they just get a lot of treats out of Shawzer."

"Well, I guess nothing much has changed," Nick says, and Brandon laughs with him, but the conversation still doesn't feel totally natural.

"How's the new apartment?" Brandon asks, figuring that it's a safe topic for them to find their footing with.

"It's good," Nick says slowly, "I mean, I still haven't finished unpacking, the rest of my stuff turned up, hrm, last week? So there's boxes everywhere. It was semi-furnished but I've got a new couch picked out. And the new bed got delivered yesterday."

"Wow, that's quick work," Brandon says. That came out kind of wrong, he thinks. "I mean. Normally you have to wait longer."

"Yeah, guess I got lucky." Nick says, and Brandon can almost see the accompanying shrug. He also can't let that one go, it's too easy.

"Got lucky, eh?" he jokes, trying to make it sound as sleazy as he can.

"Well, I was planning on breaking it in properly in December," Nick says, teasing right back. "I maybe know a guy."

"You didn't test it out already?" Brandon says, matching his tone.

Nick snorts, and doesn't bother to stifle his laughter then. "I don't think Boych would've appreciated that, since he went with me to the store. He wanted a few things before his family moves up, too."

Brandon takes a moment to imagine bed shopping with- well, any of his teammates, shudders, and has to laugh as well. He has a feeling no matter how well-intentioned a shopping expedition it was, the wheels would come off pretty fast. "I guess you're old enough to not want to try them out by bouncing on them, at least."

"My mom would've killed me if I'd ever tried that trick," Nick agrees. "It's pretty comfortable though, I've already napped like twice."

"Well, don't fall asleep while you're on the phone with me," Brandon says. "That would be totally rude."

"I'll do my best," Nick says dryly, and then Brandon hears a quiet thud over the line, one that repeats a second later before Nick breathes out audibly.

"What was that?" he asks; assuming if Nick had dropped a glass or something it would've been louder or he'd have cursed more.

"No shoes on the bed," Nick says, in a tone that makes it clear he's repeating something he's heard a million times. It's distinctly parental in tone.

What makes that feel awkward as hell is that now Brandon's picturing Nick sprawled out on his new bed, fresh sheets crumpled under him, phone in hand, and-- okay, yeah, and he's kind of into it.

"You're gonna trip on them when you get up later," Brandon says, knowing he sounds a little breathless.

"Nah, I'll be fine," Nick says, and then there's more shuffling noises from his end of the line.

"What are you _doing_?" Brandon has to ask, and he's digging the fingers of his free hand into the muscle of his thigh. He hasn't actually tried phone sex before, and he's not sure Nick's going to go for it if he does, but he really wants to ask, now.

"Getting comfortable," Nick replies easily. "What'd you think I was doing?"

"Uh," Brandon says, because he really doesn't have a good answer here.

"You're at home, right?" Nick asks, like it's a logical follow-up. Brandon's still trying to stop himself from picturing Nick stretched out on his bed, pillows behind his head. He keeps getting hung up on what he'd be wearing, which is probably his brain trying to save him from himself by not actually thinking about Nick naked again.

Whoops, too late. Brandon bites his lip and pulls his attention back to the phone.

"Yeah, just in front of the TV," Brandon says. "I was catching up on Suits."

"Ah," Nick says, and their conversations sputters to a halt again. Wow, they are really fucking bad at this.

"I wish you were here," Brandon blurts out, which is one of the least embarrassing options he could have taken, so. It's fine. It is what it is.

"Yeah," Nick says softly. "I- wish you were here, too."

Brandon knows what he means; he doesn't want to play anywhere else, but- he can't blame Nick for being happy there.

"So you figured out all the good takeout there yet?" he asks.

"Mmm, pretty much," Nick says. "You planning on making me fork out the cash to feed you in December, huh?"

"Among other things," Brandon says, and oops, he hadn't even meant that to be a double-entendre, and there it is.

"But Saader," Nick says, "I already know you're a cheap date."

"Oh my god," Brandon laughs, "I am not. I'm— " Honesty compels him to pause and reconsider the first three comments that had sprung to mind. "Okay, fine, I'm easy, you're not wrong."

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and Nick's voice is tighter when he manages to speak again. "I'm pretty fucking easy for you, too," he says.

Brandon bites his lip again.

"I really wish you were here," he says after a moment. "I want-"

"Yeah?" Nick says, when Brandon pauses longer, trying to find a better way to say it.

"I'm really looking forward to breaking in your new bed," Brandon says. "I wish we were doing that right now."

"Oh," Nick says, and Brandon doesn't have to see him to know that he's turned on, can hear it in his voice. "Yeah," he says, "I'd like that too."

Brandon presses the heel of his hand over his dick for a moment, just giving himself a moment to try and collect his thoughts, wishing it was Nick's hands on him.

"Do you- uh, we could, you know. Kind of?" Brandon rushes the words out, stumbles over them, more nervous than he'd like to be about actually asking this. He'd like to think he's smoother than this, but apparently this is as good as it gets when he's really interested in someone.

"I think if you want to try phone sex you're meant to lead with 'what are you wearing?' or something," Nick says, and he's teasing but- that's also not a 'no'.

"Well, what are you wearing?" Brandon asks, feeling a bit steadier.

"Uh, sweats and a t-shirt?" Nick answers, and Brandon congratulates himself silently for a moment on getting his mental image that close to correct.

"You wanna take them off?" he says, and then corrects himself a second later. "Take the shirt off, leave your pants on for now."

"Yeah, I can. Give me a sec," Nick says, and Brandon's pretty sure he's put the phone down, because there's silence and then Nick's back on the line, audibly breathing a little faster as he says, "Okay, I'm back."

Brandon bites his lip, pictures him in his mind's eye again; the way his face goes flushed and pink when he's turned on, the smooth curves of his arms and shoulders, the contrast of dark hair against the pale skin of his chest, and fuck, Brandon wants to touch him again.

"Are you hard?" Brandon asks; it's important to be accurate, and in his head Nick slides a hand under the waistband of his sweats, arches up into his own touch, eyes closed, hips shifting restlessly.

"Getting there," Nick says, and he sounds tense, voice tight, lower than usual.

"That's, yeah, that's good. You wanna jerk off for me?"

"Fuck, Saader," Nick says, "I really do, fuck. Can I take my pants off now?"

"Give it a minute," Brandon tells him. "Make it last."

"I'm not fucking sixteen anymore," Nick says, "I'm not gonna— it's not that fast."

From what Brandon remembers of the sex they've had already, that's probably overstating; neither of them exactly lasted all that long, although under the circumstances. Well. And he's distracting himself again; he has Nick getting himself off right now, and that's what he needs to focus on.

"That's good," Brandon says, appreciating the bitten-back moan that Nick apparently can't help at that. "Just— keep going, nice and easy, pretend it's me. God, you'd feel so good."

Nick makes another inarticulate noise at that, and Brandon has to shift his grip on the phone, fingers cramping up a little at how tightly he's holding it.

"You gonna catch up any time soon?" Nick says, breath coming short and choppy. "I don't even— fuck, Saader, this is— fucking unfair." He sounds like he's right on the edge, like he's so close, and if Brandon could teleport through the phone line to be there he would; god, he can't wait to see Nick again. Can't wait for Nick to get his hands on him again.

"Yeah, in a sec," Brandon says, letting the tiny sounds he can hear Nick making fill in his mental image, building it up with the little exhalations and half-swallowed sighs as well as the faint, slick sound of skin on skin.

"Saader," Nick manages to say, "please, come on," and Brandon gives in abruptly, shoves his hand inside his own pants, stroking himself ruthlessly fast, thinking about Nick's face and Nick's hands and Nick's _mouth_.

"Oh," he says a moment later, getting frustrated with the way the elastic waistband of his briefs is getting in his way, impeding the full range of motion in his wrist, "you can— lose the sweats, Leds, get naked already."

"Fucking finally," Nick says, sounding oddly far away, and Brandon realizes he's dropped his phone, that he's probably on speaker; that Nick can hear the noises he's making echoing around his room, fuck, just like if he really was there, and— he probably should've done the same thing, but it's too late for that, he doesn't want to stop now, which means he's stuck jerking off one-handed, the other glued to the phone, straining so he can hear it when Nick makes one last helpless sound and comes.

It doesn't take long after that until Brandon follows, heels digging into the fabric underneath him as he arches up, his balls going tight and drawing up, body going hot all over as he comes, wet and slick over his hand and his thighs and— in his sweats, fuck, just like he's a teenager still. He doesn't think he's done that since he was a lot younger.

"Ugh," he says, momentarily forgetting the phone, wiping his hand off on his stomach and — considering they're gross already — the inside of his pants.

"What, that wasn't good for you?" Nick asks, and Brandon doesn't need to see him to recognize the lazy grin he has to be wearing right now.

"My timing was off," Brandon says, and maybe he should be embarrassed, but he's only got so much energy left after coming that hard. "Next time you should remind me to strip off too."

"Ohh," Nick says, and there's a pause while he's probably imagining that. "Yeah, I can do that. That's hot, though."

"For you, maybe," Brandon says, though he still can't work up more than a cursory level of sulking.

"Mmm," Nick says. "We should do this again some time."

"Yeah?" Brandon says, the last little bit of tension bleeding out of his muscles at that. "Not too weird?"

"Mostly the good kind of weird," Nick says, after a moment's thought. "I liked it."

"Cool," Brandon says, a little inanely. He could maybe have made more effort to figure out something really sexy to say, or to ask Nick to do, but— this worked, and as far as he can tell they're both feeling good now, so fuck it.

"You're totally falling asleep on me again, aren't you?" Nick says.

"Not till I clean up," Brandon says, and that's probably the only disappointing thing. Post-orgasm naps are the best, but he knows he'll regret it if he lets himself fall asleep before he gets changed.

"You go do that, then," Nick says, easily taking over now that Brandon's not pushing, not actively running the play. "I'm gonna nap too, talk to you later?"

"Mmm, yeah," Brandon says, already shoving his sweats down over his hips and thighs, kicking them off and towards the doorway to his bedroom. That's close enough to his laundry hamper for now, probably. "G'night, Leds."

"Night, Saader," Nick says, and then he hangs up.

Brandon flops onto his back, staring up at the living room ceiling. He should get up and shower, or at least dump his clothes in to wash, and then he can lie down in bed for an hour or so before he grabs dinner. But he feels so much calmer, quiet and settled in his head for the first time in a while, and it's just easier to grab the throw rug he keeps hanging over the back of the couch and curl up under that for a nap first.

* * *

Brandon's feeling pretty good after finally getting his first goal of the season, clicking easily with Richie and Bicks. They only have a short practice the morning after, Quenneville gruffly pleased with all of them, and Sharpy and Shawzer aren't the only two horsing around a little.

He's one of the last off the ice, just the probable scratches left out there for some extra work with the coaches, and Shawzy and Krugs practicing face offs for a while. Smitty's dropping pucks for them and chirping them both, so after a last few shots on net, Brandon heads back into the room to change.

Everyone's feeling good after getting a shutout at home, so the mood in the locker room is somewhere between cheerful and outright silly, high enough that if it was anyone's birthday Brandon would put cash on there being at least one shaving cream pie dished out. Given the way Shawzy's been bouncing off the walls all morning, that might happen anyway.

"Hey, Saader," Shawzy says when he barrels back into the room, and he does his best to hipcheck Brandon into the wall when he stops in front of his stall. Brandon's skates are off already and he's just in his under armor, so he's got more than enough traction to just hold still and let Andy rebound off him.

"Don't break Saader," Richie says from his other side, and swats at Shawzy with a towel. It's good to see him talking a bit more in the room; he'd been kind of quiet in the preseason, so Brandon gives him a nod of thanks and jabs Andy in the side with one finger, just under where his pads reach.

"Chill out, Mutt," he says, and sits down to shove his socks off, straightening up again to stretch. His hamstrings are feeling a little tight.

"Yeah, yeah," Shawzy says, but he does shut up for a bit then, and he dials it back down while he's changing, too. He doesn't even try to photo-bomb Brandon while he's talking to Tracey, which is a nice change from the last three times he'd been tapped to talk to the beats.

They've got the afternoon off before they have to be at the airport for the short road trip that's next on the schedule, and Brandon says yes without even needing to stop and think when Bicks puts a general call out to the room to ask who wants to get lunch.

Crow, Smitty and Shawzy are all on board, too. Amanda and Chaunette join them, which is good for everyone, because Shawzy's distracted first by his girl and then secondly by Makayla, who's almost two months old now, Bicks proudly announces, and is apparently the world's most zen baby, if the way she just coos and waves her fists when Andy gets to hold her is any consolation.

"See, she's gonna kick ass on the ice, too," Shawzy says, and Bicks laughs and then looks like he's wishing he hadn't. Amanda just dryly says that she's hopefully got her dad's wrist shot, too, then, so she can get the Canadian Women's team a gold medal after Poulin retires.

Brandon and Ben both make the expected patriotic protests at that point, but they're outnumbered, and their waitress is handing around menus anyway, so everyone's attention is starting to shift.

Shawzy gets Chaunette to share her menu with him so he doesn't have to hand Makayla back right away, which would possibly make Brandon nervous if it was his kid, but he's serious about being careful with her, and he's spent enough time cooing over all the other Hawks' children that Bicks only looks his normal level of concerned that someone else is holding his baby girl, rather than hovering like he does when some of the other younger guys are.

It's actually the first time Smitty or Crow have seen her — Brandon had been over to visit when she was still tiny and new; he and Leds and Shawzy had stopped by to bring presents and to quietly make fun of how little sleep Bicks was gonna be getting while they were enjoying the last week or two of summer — and they're appropriately complimentary, which makes her parents smile proudly.

The way they've arranged themselves in the restaurant works out pretty well for Bicks and Amanda, too, since half the table wants to hold Makayla, and passing her around means they actually get both hands free to eat at the same time for a while, which is apparently a novelty. Brandon holds her for a little while, careful to make sure he's doing it right, but by that point she's clearly over all these strangers and starts to fuss a little. She's still ridiculously cute.

"Lucky she takes after Amanda, huh?" Brandon says, handing her back to Bicks.

"What're you implying there, Saader?" he says, tucking her in against his chest, and normally he'd probably try to sound threatening, but his tone's still stuck in baby-talk mode, which means it just comes off ten times funnier. Brandon and Smitty both wind up laughing helplessly, and Brandon has to drink his water fast before he winds up hiccuping as well.

"You have a cute kid," Brandon says eventually, when he's pretty sure he's not going to choke embarrassingly, and he grins at her, and then at her dad again.

"Thank you, Brandon," Amanda says serenely, but the way her lips are twitching suggests that she wants to grin, too. She and Bicks are pretty fucking cute in their own right, Brandon thinks.

"Eat your burger already," Bicks says, mock-sternly. "Gotta keep your strength up so you can throw me more passes, eh?"

"I see how it is," Brandon says mournfully to Crow on his other side. "He's only feeding me so he can get his plus-minus up."

"Yeah, no; you're buying your own lunch, Saader," Bicks says, and well, it was worth a try.

“—see?" Shawzer is saying to Crow when Brandon tunes back in to the conversation from that end of the table. Crow's looking at him, though, which is kind of weird, and then Shawzy won't meet his eyes. Which is suspicious.

He excuses himself for a moment and finds the bathroom; it's a little early in the season for pranks on anyone but the rookies, but when Shawzy's looking that guilty it's probably safer to be sure than sorry. He doesn't have anything on his face or shoes, though, and when he twists around to check the back of his shirt is clean, so either Shawzy's just being weird — always a possibility — or he hasn't done anything yet. Brandon's going to be careful.

The table's mostly been cleared when he gets back to sit down again, just their drinks and a few plates that haven't been picked up yet left.

Brandon leans across the table to swipe a pickle spear from Smitty — he doesn't even like them, Brandon's being nice— and then finishes off the last remnants of his own plate.

"So what's with the mountain man look at the moment? Are you trying to look ten years older?" Amanda asks him, while they're all sitting around waiting for their bill.

"He's sick of getting carded," Crow says, keeping a remarkably straight face, considering it's a total lie. Brandon almost never gets carded, although that's probably because half of Chicago recognizes most of the Blackhawks these days, which is sometimes awesome and others really inconvenient.

"Shh," Shawzy says, stage-whispering. "We're not meant to mock his sadness beard."

"My what?" Brandon asks, staring.

His teammates are all dicks, because every one of them snickers at that point. Great.

"You know, the thing where you're trying to replace Leds by growing the same beard or whatever," Shawzy says, which is possibly the only thing he could suggest that sounds weirder than the truth.

"I really don't know why I spend time with you all," Brandon says, not deigning to respond to that. He doesn't know how to respond to that, really. He hasn't been deliberately cultivating the beard so much as he just hasn't felt like shaving.

"Well, he can't shave it now anyway," Smitty points out, "don't wanna break the streak."

"I'm not sure why you're critiquing my beard when Crow's wearing that jacket in public," Brandon says, and the deflection works, because they all move onto giving Corey shit for the plaid jacket he's wearing as smoothly as if they'd practiced it.

* * *

"Nice goal :)" is the only message Nick has sent when Brandon finally gets around to checking WhatsApp after they're done with lunch, back home doing a last minute packing job, trying to figure out what he's forgetting. It's only the second road trip of the season, he's not totally back in the swing of this yet. Their game against Dallas had only been an overnight; he'd been kind of distracted anyway, and he'd still only just remembered to pack another pair of socks. He's determined to make a better showing this time.

"Finally caught up to you," he sends back. It's not really a competition, obviously; but while he'd been happy for Nick, the fact he hadn't scored yet himself had been getting under his skin a little.

"Hey, feel free to do that to every other Metropolitan team" Nick replies, and Brandon thinks, that yeah, that would be okay with him, too. Though he's not going to turn down any chance to put one past Halak, either.

* * *

Brandon doesn't exactly have a lot of time for anything but hockey most of the year; and even when he's doing other things, it's usually with teammates. It's just easier that way, and it's not like he gets to meet a lot of other people, anyway.

He goes to movies with Shawzy and Mo and sometimes Crow; they've actually been hanging out a lot more recently, although they really don't have the same taste in music. Brandon doesn't mind listening if he's catching a ride with him, though, it's not like he's going to demand something else. Driver picks the music, after all.

He tries to get dinner with a couple of the guys most nights, especially if they're on the road. It keeps everyone happy, he gets to stay on top of what's going on with them, and he doesn't have to eat by himself. Win/win, basically. He's done similar stuff since Saginaw, although most of the time there he had Rossy and Tro around, too. It's not like he doesn't still see them or talk to them, either, but it's not the same now they're not in each other's pockets all the time. He's wondered sometimes if it'll be the same with Nick, eventually; if not seeing him every day will leave them good friends, but friends who don't actually need to talk all the time. It would maybe be simpler if it did, Brandon's honest enough to admit that to himself.

But it doesn't seem like that's in the cards any time soon. Brandon's messaging him almost daily if not more often and they'll call each other when they've both got the time, although the schedule means that doesn't happen often at all. And every time it surprises him how easy it still is to talk to Nick, even when they keep things entirely G-rated. They'd maybe have had this anyway if Nick hadn't made that move a few weeks ago, but… Brandon can't exactly bring himself to regret it, either.

Brandon's always liked to get time to himself, likes his privacy and getting a chance to recharge a bit. Being more social the rest of the time makes it easier to get away with that, and he's even more relieved that the rest of the team are used to him by now, because it doesn't stand out now that he's stealing hours and minutes alone to check in with Nick, glued to his phone now more than he ever has been before. At least, he doesn't think it's standing out; no one's said anything, and if he was acting noticeably different, he'd have heard about it by now. Almost anything's fair game for chirping, and given the way Krugs had gotten it in spades when he was all gooey about some girl he'd met last season, well. If Brandon was standing out, acting any different… someone would have said.

It's probably not surprising that no one's noticed anything different, because he and Nick have been circling around this point for almost a year, maybe longer. Everyone jokes about bromances, and Brandon rolls with it, because protesting would actually make people more suspicious than not, but they've had this potential all along. And Brandon knows himself, would never have let anything happen while they were on the same team. He's only needed to make that mistake once.

"Have you- uh, hooked up with a teammate before?" Nick asks, late one night, when neither of them is in the mood for anything that involves more effort than just talking; Brandon’s icing a wicked bruise on his hip and Nick is being tight-lipped about something but clearly in some pain; Brandon can hear it in his voice. And he’s willing enough to be a distraction, even if he wants some painkillers and a nap more than anything else.

"Kind of," Brandon hedges. He's not outing anyone else, obviously; Nick doesn't push. He'd probably guess correctly if he was going to, but Brandon doesn't ask him to. "There was, um. We were playing spin-the-bottle at a party in Saginaw once?"

Nick surprises them both with a bark of laughter at that; Brandon supposes he can't blame him. It is kind of a dumb story. "So you made out in front of everyone? Wow, Saader."

"No," Brandon admits slowly. "He was sitting right by the hottest girl at the party, so he kissed my cheek and then said he hoped my wrist shot was more accurate than my bottle-spinning." Brandon pauses for a second; he hasn't actually told this story before. They'll joke about it sometimes, but only when it's just the two of them, and it's never mean, no matter how much Tro busts his balls about literally everyone else.

"And?" Nick says, correctly guessing there's something else other than Brandon failing to make out with a hot girl in front of half his team.

"And then when we got back to my billet he said maybe we should have a do-over on that. We just made out, and, uh. I was into it and he wasn't, really."

It had been awkward for about ten whole seconds, but Vince is Vince, and loyal as hell, as well as completely unshakable in his confidence in both himself and his friends. Brandon had managed to push his dumb crush far enough away that they'd been able to keep being friends, and Tro had just asked him once, "is this still okay?" when they crashed in the same bed, and aggressively made things okay between them until Brandon stopped looking at him like a guy he wanted to date and just saw his best friend.

He'd also made a joke exactly once about how he wished he was into dudes because Brandon was actually a good kisser, and that had actually stung, sharp for a second before Brandon made himself laugh and say he was glad he could help him through his sexuality crisis or whatever, but he must have given something away, because Tro punched him in the arm and mumbled, "hey, sorry," and never made that joke again.

"Ouch," Nick says. "Sucks, man."

Brandon shrugs, and then remembers Nick can't actually see him. "It's fine now," he says. "I got better at finding people who did want to sleep with me. Present company very much included."

"Just happy to have made the team," Nick says dryly, and Brandon snorts. He really doesn't pick up anywhere near as much as people seem to think, he's gone home alone more often than not. Nick probably remembers that if he was half-watching Brandon whenever they'd been out with the rest of the Hawks the same way Brandon had watched him. He's been just that little bit too-aware of Nick for most of the time they've known each other. At least on the ice that had come in handy.

"Too many really bad jokes," Brandon says in response to that, and then shifts on the couch. His ice pack is seriously melted now, he needs to trade it out for a new one, or just take an anti-inflammatory and go to bed already, and that means they should probably wrap this up, too. "Hey, I should go. Message me later?"

"Yeah," Nick agrees. "Later, B."

"Bye," Brandon says, and makes himself get up then. No good's gonna come of just sitting on the couch and dwelling on how far away Nick is. December seems an awfully long way off.

* * *

Their second road trip gets off to a much less auspicious start than the first had, and Brandon’s not the only one who’s a little touchy after they lose to Nashville. It grates because it’s on the road, in a rival building that still collects a fair share of fans in red jerseys; it grates more because it’s points in their division, and most of all it grates to take their first regulation loss of the season. That was going to suck no matter when it happened, but Brandon still wishes they’d been able to run that first streak out longer. It’d be nice — Brandon has to laugh at the understatement in that, when he thinks it to himself — it’d be nice to have a run like 2013 again, however unlikely that is.

They’ll shake it off fast, because they have to, you always need to, no point getting mired in a slump this early on, and dwelling on a loss is the quickest way to add more of them. That’s something Brandon’s known since he was in peewees. But he gives himself a little time to work the frustration out when they get to their hotel rooms that night.

The good thing about this road swing is it’s one of the shortest, barely an hour between Nashville and St Louis, and Brandon’s pretty sure they spend most of that time taking off and then descending again. It’s not even worth trying to nap; he just listens to his iPod in one ear and Shawzy muttering rude comments about Neal in the other, and considers messaging Nick to complain.

He doesn’t, in the end; it doesn’t seem all that fair to send him what essentially boils down to, “it sucks that you’re not here”, because either Nick still wishes he was there with them all and it’s twisting the knife, or he doesn’t and Brandon gets to feel kind of dumb for missing him still, on and off the ice. It’s not the most cheerful thing he’s spent time thinking over lately, so he’s grouchier than he’d normally be when they check in, and even TVR’s already-trademark grin falters a little when they make it up to their room.

Brandon goes to brush his teeth again and bullies himself into a better mood in the process; when he comes out of the bathroom he tosses TVR a bottle of Gatorade from the mini bar and says, “hey, bathroom’s all yours,” which is about as close as they need to come at this point to an apology.

Trevor just salutes him with the bottle and says “Thanks Saader” quite solemnly before disappearing into the bathroom. The fan goes on as well as the light, and Brandon’s not all that surprised to hear the shower start up as he changes and gets into bed himself. The kid’s definitely not at the point yet of finding the idea of showering when he doesn’t have to more of an irritation than anything else, and he’s probably also looking to get five minutes of privacy for himself. And to give Brandon some, too, which he has to admit, he appreciates.

* * *

Brandon and Nick roll through the first few weeks of the season in much the same way as they’d started them; talking when they get a chance but mostly consumed with team business; playing and practicing and working out and bonding. It's easier for Brandon, of course; he's not the one who has to learn a whole new system, or who's suddenly playing closer to 25 minutes a night, and he already knows most of his teammates.

He does go out of his way a little to try and help TVR feel more comfortable; he's quietly friendly when they room together, and he makes sure the kid knows where to go and that he's getting enough to eat. Unlike some people Brandon could mention - Hayesy, for one - Trevor at least has already worked out the mysteries of the washing machine and dryer, so he's one up on about a third of the other guys from the IceHogs.

It probably helps, Brandon finds himself saying to Nick, that TVR's stayed up since training camp, that he hasn’t had to go back and forth between the A and the show. And as much as Brandon sometimes wishes he didn’t have to share a room on the road, it’s not bad to have company. And he suspects TVR is happy not to be stuck on his own, the only real rookie up with the team so far. "He's a good kid," Brandon says, earnestly, and he's a little surprised — maybe a little hurt? — when Nick just laughs, like he can't help himself.

"What?" Brandon asks, knowing he sounds defensive.

"Nothing," Nick says, still with that little curl of laughter in his voice. If Brandon weren't a little overtired and grouchy he'd probably find that endearing. "It's just— sure thing, grandpa."

"Oh, fuck you," Brandon says, and stops pacing around his couch, settling down sideways on it instead, leaning into the armrest and letting that keep his back straight, feeling the pull in his muscles. He'd gone pretty hard at practice that morning and now he’s feeling it some.

"Just, there are so many reasons you got stuck with that nickname, Saader," Nick says eventually, and his voice is still warm but he's not laughing now, which does make it kind of easier for Brandon to take.

"You're all terrible," he grumbles, because Nick might not be part of the team 'us' now, but he still counts for the purposes of this conversation.

"You said it was your favorite nickname," Nick points out, and normally Brandon _likes_ how logical he is.

"Yeah, well, I— wait, how do you know that?" Brandon's pretty sure he only said that, like, once.

Or at least only once where there was a camera or someone to remember it. Stuff he's said to Vince or George or the other guys from Saginaw doesn't count, especially when he was drunk at the time.

Nick's silent for a moment, and he sounds reluctant when he does finally answer. "I maybe watched some video when I couldn't sleep the other night," he says.

"You— wait a second," Brandon says, brightening up. "Seriously? You dork."

"Oh please," Nick says, trying to scoff but not covering his embarrassment nearly well enough for Brandon to not pick up on it. "Like you've never watched a bunch of highlight videos when you're bored or you feel shitty."

"I don't think Blackhawks TV interviews count as highlight videos," Brandon says, stretching his legs out and idly rotating his ankles. He should probably go take another hot shower or something, that might help too. "Especially since you know they have to cut out all the good stuff."

Mostly Brandon means anything actually funny, because god knows none of them can crack a joke without a bunch of f-bombs. He still can't believe anyone was dumb enough to give Crow a hot mic after the parade, literally everyone should have known better.

He carefully doesn't go near the part of the conversation that involves confessing that he's got the Islanders' video feed bookmarked on his laptop; that sometimes he'll go check to see if they've interviewed Nick because he just wants to watch him talk or move. It's not something he's done often; it's a little embarrassing but mostly it's just that even after going from being one of the quiet stalwarts in the back of the room to half of the top D-pair, Nick seems to avoid being on camera an awful lot, still. Brandon's seen more of Boychuk and Tavares and Clutterbuck than he ever would have expected to.

"But, like," Brandon goes on after silence drags on for a while, the quiet on the phone line seeming to pull the words out of him. "If you're feeling like shit you can always just. Call me. Or we can Skype." Brandon shrugs, even though Nick can't actually see him. "You know."

"Yeah, same to you." Nick says. "That is, if you desperately need to see my face for some reason, I usually have my laptop on the road. And no roommates." He's back to sounding a little smug by the end of that sentence, rubbing it in just a little that Brandon has to be careful, has other people around a lot more.

"Was that a proposition?" Brandon asks. He's hoping so, not sure what else it would be.

"Yeah, if you want," Nick says, so casually that Brandon knows he's over-compensating, that he wants to say yes and doesn't think he should for some reason.

"Yes," Brandon says definitively, sitting up straighter and feeling a lot more awake. "We should definitely have a Skype date. Really soon." It's almost dinner time and neither of them has a game until tomorrow or the day after. "How's, uh, five minutes from now?"

Nick barks out a laugh. "What do you need to do that's gonna take five minutes, Saader?"

He had been going to say 'shave'; not that Nick isn't pretty clearly into the scruffy look, but honesty compels him to admit, "Put sheets on the bed."

Because Brandon's 22 years old, and he knows damn well that if he has a private Skype date with the guy he's—seeing? Fucking? In a relationship with? Whatever — he knows that it's going to turn into sex fast, and he'd rather do that in bed that on his couch.

Nick just cracks up, and Brandon lets himself grin back at the phone for a long moment before interrupting him to say, "So I'm gonna go do that, go clean yourself up and call me back in five, okay?"

"Sure thing, Saader," Nick says, and he hangs up, and Brandon stretches his arms above his head, getting the kinks out of his spine and breathing deeply, because yeah, when it comes to Nick he really is a sure thing.

* * *

It takes less than five minutes for Brandon to put clean sheets on the bed, although he half-asses it; it’s not like Nick’s going to be inspecting for hospital corners or anything like that. He gets distracted for a minute wondering if he should do anything different, add any sort of, well, scene-setting, and then he realizes how ridiculous that is. The camera on his laptop isn’t that great, and if this works out all right then the only thing Nick should be looking at is, well. Him.

Brandon examines that thought for a moment, not entirely sure how he feels about it. He’s hooked up enough to be comfortable with the idea of getting naked with someone; sex isn’t all that much of a mystery these days, although it is occasionally a revelation. He’s less sure about getting naked _for_ someone. Admittedly, he’s undressed in front of multiple people almost every day for years now, that’s just part of playing hockey. It’s not like anyone’s really looking, though, so that doesn’t quite count the same. It’s not naked with _intent_.

Then again, if they go through with this, then Brandon gets to see Nick naked again, and considering he hadn’t exactly had much time to take the scenic route the last time they’d been in the same city, that’s pretty much enough to get him hot now. He’s got a good memory, but Brandon’s definitely on board with refreshing that mental image.

Brandon tugs the sheet flat again, tucking the excess under the mattress so that it at least looks neat. He eyes the pile of blankets he’d left on the floor when he stripped the bed earlier, and then decides to just leave them there. It’s not like they’re going to get any dirtier this way, and then he can just throw them back onto the bed later. He scans his room briefly, opens the curtains to let what natural light there is left in the day in, and then turns the electric light on as well. It’s probably overkill, but whatever.

His computer’s shoved under the coffee table in his living room, so he retrieves that, noting that at least it’s actually charged for once. Running the battery down in the middle of everything would be… awkward.

Brandon sets the laptop down on the foot of his bed, and then reconsiders, moving it so it’s sat on a pillow and resting against his headboard. It’s less likely to fall off from there, he thinks. He climbs onto the mattress, second-guesses himself again, and reaches back to pick up the computer and set it in his lap. He could strip off now, but that feels too presumptuous; Nick didn’t actually say he wanted to try anything more than a video call.

He heavily implied it, sure, but Brandon would rather hedge his bets.

It takes him a moment to click Skype open, and another moment after that to find Nick in his list of contacts; mostly last summer they’d stuck to group texts and WhatsApp and hanging out in person. Brandon has to actually find Nick’s email first and that means it takes longer than he’d anticipated, means by the time the call connects he’s sweating and a little flustered.

Nick’s face looks — pretty much exactly like Brandon’s been imagining it, honestly. His beard’s thicker, a little longer, and he looks less stressed than the last time Brandon had seen him, but other than that, he hasn’t changed at all. Brandon’s not sure why he thought he might have; it’s not like he doesn’t see high quality photographs every other day or so, even if Nick on the ice isn’t quite the same as Nick with his hair all mussed, dressed down in sweats and a thin hoodie, sleeves pushed up around his elbows.

“Hey,” Brandon says, and he can’t help the grin. Shit, it’s _so good_ to see him.

“Hi,” Nick says warmly, and he’s looking away from his webcam, down at his screen, Brandon thinks, like he’s trying to memorize what Brandon looks like there.

“So, uh…” Brandon says, and then runs down, because he’s not sure he can actually just straight up tell Nick to get naked already. “How did you want to, uh, do this?”

“Figured we could play it by ear,” Nick says, easily. “You made the bed, huh?”

“Just put clean sheets on,” Brandon says.

“Not worried about messing them up, then?” Nick asks, and his tone’s even, but there’s a dark teasing hint around the edges there, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and Brandon feels himself go slightly pink.

“Should I be?” he asks, trying to meet Nick where he’s at, to match. It feels daring, even though intellectually Brandon can admit this is pretty fucking tame.

Nick takes a deep breath, and Brandon can see just enough of him in the screen to watch his chest move, shoulders loosen.

“We did a pretty good job of that last time I was over,” Nick says eventually. “It’d be fun to do that again.” That’s a pretty direct invitation, and Brandon catches himself shifting ever so slightly on the bed, suddenly conscious of how much he wants that. Wants this.

“You want to, um, do the best we can like this?” he asks, and Nick gives him a warm smile. Fuck, Brandon can feel that all the way down to his toes. He’s so fucking gone.

“Sounds good,” Nick says. “Uh, have you done this before?”

“Kind of?” Brandon says, and when Nick raises an eyebrow he adds, “I don’t think Rossy giving me a drunk striptease actually counts.”

Nick’s eyebrow goes higher.

“I didn’t get off on it,” Brandon protests, because that had been funny and a little awkward, but not actually about sex at all, for either of them. Mostly about Rossy liking to get naked when he’s drunk. Brandon’s friends are fucking weirdos, basically.

“Okay, Saader,” Nick says, and then he reaches forward to do something to his laptop, pushing the screen back, and when the picture settles again it’s set further back, so now Brandon can see not just Nick’s face, but most of his chest and shoulders, too. He can feel his breathing pick up just the slightest.

“You look good,” Brandon says softly, and Nick doesn’t go red, but he does look away for just a second before grinning back at his camera.

“So, you pick up anything from Ross?” Nick asks, and it takes Brandon a moment to get it, but then he laughs and says, “No, he tripped on his jeans and almost fell on his face.”

“So a ‘what not to do’,” Nick says, without missing a beat.

“Yeah, something like that,” Brandon says.

“Comfortable over there?” Nick asks.

Brandon starts to say yes, and then gets where Nick’s going with that. He sits up straighter, and then leans forward, making sure he’s still in frame. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, and it’s somehow easy to ask that all of a sudden, to commit to doing this. Fuck, Brandon really wants to get off, and if he can’t do it with Nick touching him, at least he can see and hear him.

“Lose the shirt?” Nick suggests, and then as Brandon reaches back to tug at the collar of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head, he adds, “And everything else.”

“You better catch up,” Brandon says, kind of muffled through his t-shirt.

“What?” Nick says, and Brandon repeats himself after dropping the shirt onto the floor beside the bed.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Nick says, and Brandon pauses with his hands on the flies of his jeans, watching Nick strip off his hoodie, dumping it somewhere off camera, and then start to unbutton the shirt he’s wearing underneath, fingers moving quickly and competently.

There’s suddenly a lot more to look at, Nick’s bare chest and arms in frame, skin pale against the dark hair on his chest, the last remnants of his summer tan still visible on his upper arms. Brandon gets distracted watching him move, the play of muscles in his arms and chest, and the movement of his throat as he swallows.

“Forget something?” Nick asks, and Brandon looks down, says, “Oh, right,” and yanks at his zipper.

It turns out there’s no graceful way to take off your pants while sitting on a bed, and Brandon doesn’t exactly want to kick his laptop either, so he scrambles to his feet and pushes his jeans down over his thighs, wriggling till they hit his ankles and he can step out of them.

There’s no graceful way to get back onto the bed either; Brandon’s used to talking to his partner, touching and kissing and watching them move through this part, and it’s weird to not have that immediate feedback.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back in front of the laptop, reaching out to line up the camera again. It seems a little silly, but that feeling passes almost immediately, because Nick’s made use of the time himself, is just as naked, his computer pushed back far enough that Brandon can see almost all of him.

“This good?” Nick asks, one hand hovering uncertainly over his stomach.

He’s not really hiding anything; Brandon can see he’s hard, his dick just inches below his fingers, and Brandon’s itching to touch, more than happy to take the next best thing — which is watching Nick touch himself.

“Really good,” Brandon says, his gaze darting from Nick’s hands up to his face, his lips parted, eyes glued to his own screen. “You should, uh. Take care of that.”

“Fuck,” Nick says, and wraps his hand around his own dick, stroking it, slower than how Brandon would start, and he makes a mental note of that, tries to remember for next time, if they get a proper next time.

Brandon realizes that his own hands are still resting on his upper thighs, thumbs digging in to the skin as if he can hold onto the shreds of his own self control that way.

“Brandon, c’mon,” Nick says, his breathing barely audible now, a shade too fast for normal, and Brandon’s distracted for another moment by the way his thumb drags over the crown, the way that makes his hips jerk just a little. “I wanna see,” Nick complains, and he slows his own hand down more, like he’s waiting for Brandon to catch up.

“Holy shit,” Brandon says, finding it hard— _difficult_ to look away.

He gets his hand onto his own dick then, grip tight, moving fast, and a shudder works its way down his back as the sensation goes right through him. He takes a shaky breath in, and then fights to get his eyes open again; he doesn’t need to watch himself jerk off — though he’s going to have to keep checking in on the tiny picture-in-picture window, just to make sure _Nick_ can see — but he doesn’t want to miss a second of what Nick’s doing.

“Yeah,” Nick says, “That’s— just like that.” He’s working his hand faster now, and Brandon can see the muscles standing out in his forearm, tense with the angle he’s got his wrist at. The picture quality is just okay, not perfect; not as good as having Nick right there with him in real life, surround sound, but it’s good enough that he can see his dick twitch as he does something particularly good with his thumb.

“That’s so hot,” Brandon manages to choke out, captivated. He wants to watch this in person, too; when he can reach out and touch after Nick’s got himself worked up like this, imagines how good it would feel to cover Nick’s hands with his own, remembers how sensitive Nick was when he did get his hands on him.

“Gonna say the same,” Nick says, looking down for a second, and Brandon follows his gaze, tries to memorize the way his hips jerk up a little as he rubs his palm over the head. “This isn’t gonna take long,” Nick warns him, eyes back on his screen, like he’s trying to drink Brandon in just as much. “Fuck, I want— you feel so good,” he says, “Can’t wait to do this again for real,” and Brandon shudders again, remembering, trying to convince himself for a few seconds that it’s Nick’s hands on him again instead of his own.

Brandon slows down just a little, tries to match his movements to Nick’s. It works for a minute or so, till they’re breathing in sync, and Brandon’s right on the edge, shivering hot-cold all over with the need to get off, unhelpfully at odds with the urge to draw it out as long as possible.

Nick’s tightened his grip, or sped it up, or something; he’s changed something that he’s doing in a way that’s making him gasp, and it’s so fucking hot; his dick blood-dark and flushed red in his hand, and Brandon can’t even pretend to be playing it cool any more, says the first thing that comes into his mind, “I really wish I could suck your dick right now, fuck,” and Nick gives a strangled groan and comes about ten seconds later.

“Brandon,” he says, by the time he’s collected himself, wiping his hand off carelessly on the sheets by his thigh, leaning forward so that his face is closer to the screen; taking up more of Brandon’s. “That was so fucking hot, fuck.”

“Eloquent,” Brandon pants, because okay, he’s about three seconds away from coming his brains out, but he’s still with it enough to notice when Nick’s vocabulary has apparently shrunk to like ten words. Not that Brandon can blame him, if he’s finding this as much of a turn-on as Brandon is, which seems, uh. Likely.

“Like you’re any better,” Nick says lazily, eyes still glued to his computer. He licks his lips, and Brandon bites back a sound at that, gives away enough that Nick grins at him, before asking, “So what’s it gonna take to get you there, huh?”

“Not much,” Brandon says, and lets himself lean back into the pillows behind him some more, lets go of his dick for a few seconds to drag his fingertips down lower, skimming over his balls, back up to rub over the skin around the base of his cock before getting his hand back on the shaft, tighter and faster than before. “Tell me what you’d do,” Brandon adds, because what little time they have spent in bed has been more than enough to convince him that Nick’s never less inhibited than right after he’s gotten off.

“If I was there,” Nick starts, and Brandon arches up under his own touch, straining to hear Nick’s voice, soft in the quiet of his bedroom, “I’d get my hands on you,” Brandon inhales sharply, “Everywhere but your dick,” and his grip tightens automatically in response to that, increasingly desperate, “And then when you were begging for it,” Brandon’s breath hitches, and he knows how to read Nick, how to take what he’s dishing out, couldn’t bite back the “Please, Leds—” that comment evokes even if he’d wanted to, “then I’d blow you until—” Nick carries on, but Brandon doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence, because that’s the point where he finally loses it himself.

“You really could just fall asleep like that, huh?” Nick’s asking when Brandon’s brain comes back to something approximating full working order, and he blinks a few times, because, well, duh.

“I’m in bed,” he points out, although admittedly he’d probably get a little cold eventually. He’s fallen asleep before in worse states than mostly naked and kind of dirty, that’s for sure.

“How did you ever convince anyone Shawzy was the messy one,” Nick says, mostly rhetorically.

“Please don’t mention Shawzy while I’m still thinking about doing naked stuff with you,” Brandon says. ”It feels inappropriate.”

“Your face is inappropriate,” Nick says, kind of on reflex, and Brandon just raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, fair,” Nick says, holding up both hands in a ‘you made your point’ type of gesture. “So what other naked stuff were you thinking about, anyway?” He looks disgustingly wide-awake and like he’s considering trying to go again, which Brandon appreciates, in theory, but now he’s also considering the merits of sneaking in a quick nap before trying to get dinner.

“Napping,” he says, sticking with honesty, and Nick just laughs, a little rueful, before rubbing his hand over his mouth and saying “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay,” Brandon says. “This was fun?”

“We should definitely do it again,” Nick agrees. “Talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” Brandon says, and can’t help a yawn, struggling to sit up properly long enough to actually say goodbye and to deal with the computer. “Later. Night, Leds.”

“Night, Saader,” Nick says, and the last thing Brandon sees is him leaning in, face out of shot, just the top of his chest and the curve of his biceps in focus as he reaches over in front of the camera to hit something to cut off the video call.

“Huh,” Brandon says to himself, before shuffling forward enough to flip the lid of the laptop closed himself, and shoving it to the far side of the bed near the foot, hopefully out of harm’s way.

He settles back into the mattress, reaching over to grab the blanket from the heap on the floor beside him and pulling it half-heartedly over himself. He can just grab like an hour’s nap like this first, anything else can wait.


	3. November 2014

Early in the month the Islanders are on their California swing, which means for once Nick's the one who's having to remember about time zones, the one whose games finish later. They've got into the habit of checking in with each other after games; late enough that teammates are unlikely to be nosy about their phones, but they're cautious all the same.

Brandon's not in the greatest of moods; they'd lost to the _Leafs_ and then turned right around to get shut out at home, neither of which left anyone feeling good, and having had nothing to do but early practice on the Monday before their flight up to Montreal meant he was feeling decidedly shitty.

He'd just about decided to maybe go see a movie or something, figuring maybe some of the other guys wouldn't mind getting out of the hotel for the evening, too. They could get sushi or something. Maybe that would help get them all out of the funk they were in.

Bicks and Smitty are both on board, though Andy begs off, citing a need to 'plan date night stuff', which Brandon does not need any more information on, thanks. Grabbing dinner afterward and talking the movie over seems to have worked well as a distraction technique, and they run pretty close to curfew, piling into a cab before heading to their respective rooms.

Even with having been crammed into too-small cinema seats for a couple hours, Brandon feels looser, and like some of the tension that had been winding him up is bleeding off. Mission accomplished then, he thinks with some satisfaction, and goes to brush his teeth. He's mentally laying out clothes for tomorrow and trying to remember if he needs to set anything else out before morning skate when his phone rings, echoing loud off the tiles of the bathroom, and he has to dive to answer it before whoever's next door to him can yell through the wall.

"Hello?" he says, and he can hear a lot of noise, and loud music, and not much of anything else down the line.

He tilts the phone away from his face for a moment, tapping the screen to light up the caller ID. It's Nick.

"Leds?" he tries again, and this time Nick's voice comes in, too-loud and cheerful and -- Brandon should know, recognizing it easily after the summer they'd won the Cup -- very definitely drunk.

"Saader!" he says, sounding delighted, and Brandon's equal parts warmed by that, and completely not in the fucking mood. He can feel some of the hard-won chill he'd regained that afternoon seeping away.

"What do you want, Leds?" he asks, with a little resignation, walking back to sit on the bed closest to the door. One good thing about rooming with with the rookies to start off the year is that he winds up with his own room when the kid's are back in Rockvegas, and right now he appreciates the privacy.

"I-- oh shit, is it late?" Nick asks, because even drunk he's apparently frighteningly good at picking up on Brandon's mood. That somehow makes Brandon crankier, and he finds himself picking at the comforter, hands restless.

"It's late, yeah," Brandon says. "We're in Montreal, so. Yeah."

"Oh, sorry," Nick says, and for a heartbeat Brandon thinks he's going to hang up then and there. He doesn't, though, and after a few seconds the background noise diminishes, like Nick's walked outside or something.

"Where are you?" Brandon asks, after a moment.

"Club that Matty knew," Nick replies. "It's fun? Loud, but. I had a couple drinks and Johnny and Hammer said we should dance. Or... something. There was a reason."

"A reason for the drinking or the dancing?" Brandon asks, can't help himself.

"Bad week," Nick says succinctly. "Had to shake- shake it off." Brandon snorts at that, can't help himself. That song is everywhere at the moment and Nick had half-sung it too.

"How's that working out for you?" Brandon asks.

Nick makes a noncommittal noise. "'m drunk and I miss— I really wanna get laid. Losing sucks."

"Uh, yeah," Brandon says, "tell me about it." He flashes back over a few of their missed chances yesterday, grits his teeth. The fucking Jets, shutting them out at home. It's embarrassing.

"Least you got an assist," Nick says, and trust him to remember the box score from a game he hadn't even played two days ago, even when he is half-cut.

"So did you," Brandon says, because he'd caught the highlights and that was a sweet pass, even if it hadn't meant much in the end.

Nick makes another disparaging noise. "Gotta do better."

"Get 'em next time," Brandon says, the cliche rolling off his tongue a little too easily. He doesn't know what to say to Nick right now; isn't sure what he should be.

And half his mind is still stuck on what he'd said a minute ago, too. He knows full well Nick gets handsy and affectionate when he's a few drinks in; the fact he's horny if he's been drinking isn't surprising at all. What's making Brandon feel spiky and tense all over is he doesn't know why Nick's calling him. Does he want to pick up? They never talked about this before; neither of them actually said they were going to be exclusive, so he couldn't actually fault him if Nick wants to find someone tonight, work off some of the frustration, get some easy endorphins.

"Just wanted to talk to you," Nick says, as if he's carrying on a conversation that makes perfect sense to him. "It's been _days_."

"I'm going to give you so much shit for this later," Brandon says, because he knows what's expected of him and it would be stupid to deviate too much from the script. "You should go back in and find your teammates, though. They'll wonder where you are."

"I guess," Nick says. "Sorry, I know it's- it's late, fuck, yeah, you should go sleep."

"Yeah, I will." Brandon says, and then adds, "Remember to mix in a water, bud," on autopilot, because even when he's one of the youngest guys on the team, he still finds himself looking out for the others.

"Yup," Nick says, "Night, Saader."

"Later, Ledpipe," Brandon says, and then there's a soft click and a sudden silence as the call disconnects. Brandon lets himself fall back onto the bed, sprawling full length and scowling up at the ceiling.

He's fine. It's fine. _Nick_ is fine. He just needs to get some sleep and then wake up ready to kick some Habs ass. The team's gonna get back on track again, there's still a long long way to go in the season.

He knows all of that is true, and yet it's not nearly as soothing as it should be.

He just keeps thinking about Nick, probably a little unsteady on his feet after a beer too many. Keeps thinking about him curling close to some random person and touching them, maybe kissing. Some  _not Brandon_ person.

Brandon kind of wants to punch something.

And this is, he's realizing now, trying to push the jealousy down or away, ignoring it because he should be better than that—

This is kind of a problem.

* * *

Brandon doesn't have the best night's sleep, but he wakes up determined to work past that; he's focused and quiet at morning skate, and then hangs out with Mo watching trashy reality TV on his laptop after lunch. They haven't got to spend as much time together since the lockout, but it's kind of relaxing to hang out with someone he knows that well.

Of course, what Brandon had let himself forget was how close Mo and Leds are, too; he doesn't bring Nick up, but Jeremy does, makes a self-deprecating joke about how Nick's scored more this season than either of them have. Brandon punches him in the arm and points out they'll start going in eventually, but it still unsettles him.

He pushes that aside and turns the conversation back into making fun of the people on House Hunters, and that pretty much takes care of all his free time pre-nap.

He pours all the pent up energy and frustration into his game that evening, and it seems to help; he doesn't do better than an assist, but he gets some good chances and one that no one thinks Price should've been able to stop, but that's goalies for you. Crow's a fucking brick wall, though, and silencing the home crowd is always satisfying.

The room's pretty loud afterward, even though they're all worried about Sharpy, but by the time they get home — well after midnight — Brandon's in a much better mood than he'd started the day. He'll take it.

* * *

It takes Brandon a while to work up to the whole serious relationship conversation thing; it's hard and weird enough to navigate a long-distance relationship when it became long-distance about five minutes after becoming a relationship. And questionable-decision sex followed by frantic packing followed by being professional athletes with a lot of commitments doesn't exactly lend itself to a lot of time to stop and think about defining things. All they'd worked out in Chicago was that they wanted to try.

He's talking to his brother before they’re about to start a short homestand, just the sort of everyday conversation they've had half a hundred times since Brandon left for Saginaw and then Rockford and Chicago. It's obvious George doesn't think anything of it, either, idly asking if Brandon's seeing anyone, what he's up to other than working out and playing and 'sleeping twelve hours a day'.

"Shut up, I'm not that bad," Brandon protests automatically, and then, "and I— I'm kind of seeing someone?"

"Kind of?" George makes a disparaging noise into the phone. "Way to play the field, bro."

"I'm—" not, Brandon wants to say, because sure, he meets a lot of attractive people, but that doesn't mean he's going to cheat — and that's when he really, clearly, realizes that that is how he’d think of it. Maybe they haven’t talked about it, yet, but Brandon wants to have that certainty, wants that steadiness for both of them. Coupling that with the wave of jealousy that rushes through him whenever he thinks about Nick maybe hooking up with someone else… Brandon’s never been able to do casual, and apparently he’s not going to start now.

Figuring out how to be with Nick when they're half the country apart more often than not is complicated enough. It's not like he'd immediately realized that that didn't necessarily mean they were exclusive. So this is definitely something he's going to have to bring up with Nick. As soon as he figures out how.

"Forget how to use your words?" George says, eventually, after Brandon's clearly been quiet too long.

"I really need to talk to him," Brandon admits. "Oh shit, Tro's going to think this is hilarious." He lets his head drop into his hands for a moment, contemplating that.

"Ah." George says, his tone betraying more than he maybe realizes. Brandon's been out to him for a couple of years, so it's not like the pronoun's a surprise or anything, but Brandon hasn't really... dated, much. Brandon's whole family have spent enough time in Chicago, over summers since he signed — they've met a lot of the team, they know his friends. Brandon wouldn't be surprised at all if George is jumping to a really fucking accurate conclusion here. His family and friends have always been able to read him easily.

* * *

Brandon has to take a couple of days to figure out how to approach the conversation he knows they need to have. It seems a little unfair that _Nick_ doesn't know they need to, but he can't exactly give him a heads-up without basically having the conversation anyway. And Brandon doesn't want to mishandle things.

He ducks a call from Nick the afternoon before a game; he wants to get some extra sleep anyway, and they're not always in each other's pockets, he doesn't think Nick will think much of it.

They do pull out a win in the shoot-out, and Brandon adds another assist, so it's a pretty decent night. He gets dinner with the team afterward, doesn't wind up coming home till nearly midnight, and sleeps hard and a little late, so maybe that last beer did hit him after all.

There's no practice at least, so Brandon just goes through his usual off-day workout, eats, showers again, and then finds himself back in his living room in the early afternoon, at something of a loose end. The time is actually — probably not going to get much better than this, so he dumps the towel he'd wrapped around his waist back in the bathroom and gets dressed. Even if no one knows but him, he'd rather not have this conversation without pants on.

He sends Nick a quick message, just checking the timing works for him too, and gets a happy face and "sure" back within minutes.

They spend the first part of their conversation just like they always do; catching up, sharing the stories of whatever dumb-ass shit their teammates have been pulling and teasing each other.

"Hey, so," Brandon starts to say, easing into it, mentally crossing his fingers and then thinking 'the hell with it' and crossing his ankles, feet up on the coffee table. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure," Nick says, warm and even as always.

Brandon chews on his lip and then decides to just go for it, dragging this out isn't going to help him say it any better.

"I know we didn't really talk about much before you had to go," he starts, and Nick snorts, which, okay, yes, Brandon has to give him that one. They'd done a lot in a very short amount of time, but very little of it was actually talking. "But, uh, if you want to— I want to be exclusive. I mean, I just. Uh."

"Oh," Nick says, really softly, and Brandon has a moment of yawning horror; if he's fucked this up then — well, it was probably a terrible idea to start with, but he really doesn't want to mess this up.

"Is that a good oh or a bad one?" Brandon tries to make a joke of it, but he can't manage it, knows the strain is audible in his voice.

"It's a good one!" Nick rushes to reassure him, and Brandon abruptly relaxes all at once, and holy shit, he hadn't realized he'd been quite this tense. His back twinges a little, and he shifts on the couch, suddenly aware that his hands are sweating where he's holding the phone and that he's breathing kinda fast.

"Okay," Brandon says. "Okay. Cool, that's. Good."

"You're the only person I want to date," Nick says, and that feels good, Brandon's aware he's grinning helplessly, feels like he's buzzing.

"Cool," Brandon says again, and he's the lamest, but he doesn't even care. "You're the only person I want to be dating, too."

Nick laughs at him a little, but sobers long enough to add. "I don't know if you were, um, worrying about it? But it's just been you, since we— since the season started."

It's cute, Brandon thinks, how Nick can say such incredibly filthy things when they're actually in bed, or in the heat of the moment, and then he gets kind of tongue-tied talking about sex the rest of the time, but the last time he tried to say that Nick hung up on him and then refused to send him dirty texts for almost two days out of pique, so he knows better than to give him shit for that right now. And anyway, knowing that Nick isn't looking for other people, hasn't picked up— that makes him retrospectively feel ten times better, and — he's self-aware enough not to deny it — smug as hell.

"Me either," Brandon says back, just in case Nick was worried.

"So," Nick says, still slightly tentative, "uh, not that I'm telling anyone right now, but do you prefer 'partner' or 'boyfriend'? Like, if we want to put a label on this."

"Either's good," Brandon says, shrugging a little, pushing his shoulders back, stretching while he thinks. "I'm definitely pro being able to think, hey, three weeks till I get to kiss my boyfriend again."

Nick makes a slightly strangled noise, but recovers fast. "I hope that's not all you've got planned," and then he drops the flirting tone almost immediately, "You've got a rest day here, right? I want to see the rest of the guys for dinner or something, but— " He trails off, but Brandon doesn't need any help figuring out the rest of that.

"Yeah," he says. "We'll make it work." He's not going to skip any team responsibilities, or fuck up his sleep schedule or anything like that, but whatever free time he has the day before their game? He's spending as much of it as possible with Nick. "You can give me the grand tour and everything."

Brandon's not kidding himself, though. If he has an hour's privacy with Nick in his apartment?

All they'll be seeing will be the bedroom.

* * *

Brandon floats through the next day, and luckily no one actually asks him why he's grinning like an idiot pretty much non-stop; he can't quite bring himself to make the effort to try and act any different. This is probably one of those times where the rep he has is paying off; the guys would be more likely to comment — or to mercilessly chirp him just to show they care — if he looked like shit.

He crashes back to earth in Detroit, though. It's one of the worst games they've had in a while, nothing is clicking, Brandon feels like he's skating through mud and passing to people who are inexplicably two feet further away than they should be. It's a shit-show more or less from start to finish, and the only thing that makes it feel even a tiny bit better is that almost everyone had the same game, it's not all on his head.

Crow had at least kept them in it longer than they could have hoped, and Brandon feels terrible when he skates over to tap his pads after the fourth goal; they just don't have it today.

He doesn't think he's been too distracted, and certainly no more so than any of the other guys, the ones he knows are in new relationships or dealing with broken sleep and new babies or any of the million and one other things that can sneak into your mind when you're on the road for like a third of your life.

Q works them hard at their next skate; he doesn't lecture them this time but then he doesn't have to. They've all been here before, just about, and it's not like they don't know what they did wrong.

There's only a day to dwell on it, anyway, before it's entirely in the rear view mirror and they're home against the Stars in a game that starts out close, looks like it's going to go the same way, and then turns into a thoroughly enjoyable blowout in the third.

Brandon picks up a goal this time, too, which never hurts, even if it is towards the end of the third, icing on the cake since they've put three insurance goals past Lehtonen already. It's always satisfying to hear the UC erupt, the crowd loving it too, and a good omen to start the Circus trip on, leaving their affairs at home in good order. It sucks that TVR’s out now, the only sour note in the evening, but Brandon’s hoping he’ll have better news by the time they get back to Chicago. He’s been a pretty good stand-in roommate so far, Brandon could definitely get used to him.

* * *

The Sunday game was an early start, which means by the time everyone’s finished up in the locker room afterward it’s still not even all that late, and Brandon doesn’t even stop to second-guess his decision before joining the group of guys heading out afterward.

He winds up crammed into a booth with Kruger and Bicks, Smitty and Crow opposite him, and it’s warm and familiar and feels exactly right. They all toast Richie a couple of times; first for his thousand games and then again for a good night, two points on the board for him and in the standings for all of them. He’s flushed and grinning at the end of the tables, talking loudly to Tazer and Seabs, gesturing with one hand as he describes something, his drink sloshing half out of his glass with the movement. Brandon covers a grin at that: it’s a little surreal, still, even after the lockout and the Cup and everything in between being drafted and now— it’s still a bit of a shock sometimes to look around himself and see players he’s grown up watching.

Richie actually heads out not long after. Half the guys chirp him about being old and decrepit, but he just shrugs and grins more, looking perfectly content to head home to his family before midnight. Brandon might be a tiny bit jealous, not that he’s going to show it.

Crow’s deep in conversation with Carcillo, and Brandon figures they’re talking about music, again, and tunes them out, turning back to Smitty, who’s just contemplating his beer.

“Secrets of the universe in there?” Brandon asks — half-shouts, really, in the noisy bar.

“You never know,” Smitty says, and then glances over at Crow when he says something that’s clearly caught his attention.

Brandon raises an eyebrow when Smitty looks back, silently inquiring, but Smitty just shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and makes the universal gesture of “who fucking knows?” Bicks and Brandon both laugh at that, and then again when Krugs turns back from whatever he’d been leaning into the booth besides theirs to say and says, “What?” very precisely, which is exactly enough to make all three of them crack up again over nothing.

“You’re very strange,” Kruger says, mostly to Brandon, who’s at least closer, and then he gets up, leaves his unfinished drink on the table, and goes to talk to Oduya by the bar. And, Brandon realizes a few seconds later, the cute brunette and her friend who are also by Oduya at the bar.

“Huh. Get it, Krugs,” Bicks says, and Brandon just nods and says, “Smooth.” And since Kruger is clearly not coming back, Brandon doesn’t bother getting up when he finishes his own drink, just snags Krugs’ abandoned one and finishes that, too. It’s an IPA, not quite his usual taste, but it’s not terrible at least.

They get distracted talking through the deficiencies of Dallas’ defense, which is probably more of a victory lap than anything else since Brandon doesn’t think they’re seeing them again any time soon, but it keeps them going through another drink or two each, and it’s well after midnight by the time Brandon shakes himself out of a discussion with Smitty — Ben had been telling him about a movie he’d just seen and thought Brandon would enjoy too — and figures it’s about time for him to head home, too. That seems to be a tipping point for the night to break up, almost everyone splitting off in various directions, flagging down cabs or calling up cars on their phones to get home, and Brandon has to turn and yell back over his shoulder at Shawzy, who’d been trying to get one last chirp in for the night, but he’s laughing by the time he sinks into the upholstery and clicks his seatbelt into place.

It’s only a few minutes from there to get him home, the benefit of living downtown, and Brandon drops most of his clothes in a pile at the foot of his bed, just crawling under the covers without bothering to change or hang anything up. They’ve got Monday off in its entirety, he can pick them up in the morning and dump anything that needs laundering into the appropriate basket then.

He sets an alarm just so he doesn’t wind up sleeping away the entire morning — there is, much to his chagrin, some precedent there, and he’s learned the hard way that he’s better off to do this — and then pulls the blankets up over his head. He’s not drunk, but close enough to it that it feels like sleep sneaks up on him, going from near wide awake to a deep and dreamless sleep in what feels like seconds.

* * *

They have a couple days off after that and then it's on the road, the Western Canada swing to start like always.

They get in to Calgary at a fairly civilized hour, the benefit of having a couple of rest days in between their last home game and having to head out for the Circus trip. They’re hitting what Brandon thinks is probably the end of rush hour, the traffic mostly moving as they head closer to the city. It’s kind of nice to be in a city that actually has hills sometimes, Brandon thinks, staring idly out the bus window as they drive. Chicago’s great and all, but sometimes he misses living somewhere that actually has some variation in the landscape. Not that he misses having to run up hills, precisely. The lake path is a lot more pleasant when it’s not freezing out, that’s for sure.

His gaze is drawn to the mountains hazy in the distance, just like almost every other time they’ve been through here and Vancouver, and he thinks that it would be nice for once to have enough time to actually see some of the area. Maybe one off-season, he thinks, there’s meant to be good hiking at least.

As usual, the first hotel night of the trip is a bit of a shit-show. Brandon winds up with the wrong room key and has to go back to the lobby twice, because of course he put the first one right into his pocket and forgot his phone was in there. At this point that’s almost a tradition on its own, he thinks he’s done it once at least once a season, although at least usually no one but him notices. Brandon’s a little worried if he mentioned it someone would decide it was a superstition and he’d rather avoid any additional chirping about something this dumb.

Nordy's up from Rockford, which means Brandon definitely has a roommate again and suddenly a lot less privacy. He plans on sneaking his phone into the bathroom to text Nick if it's something he doesn't want to run even a tiny risk of having someone else see. It’s also their first road trip this season for more than a couple of nights, so Brandon’s looking forward to discovering whatever it is that he’s inevitably managed to forget and will doubtless discover a desperate need for. Most likely after a game when none of the local stores will be open anyway, of course. He’d packed a couple of extra shirts at least, so it hopefully wouldn’t be that, and he thinks they might have enough time to get laundry done somewhere, too, given that he doesn’t fancy having to wear any of his socks more than once otherwise.

He’d made a comment along those lines to Leds and Shawzy the season before, and when they were both done mocking him mercilessly Nick had just pointed out that the worst thing he’s seen Brandon forget is his toothbrush, which was absolutely something he could just get from the hotel anyway. Brandon said that he preferred to be prepared, thanks, and then Shawzy had made a crack about how you wouldn’t think so looking at how he packs and then Brandon had had to wrestle him until he tapped out, while Nick laughed at both of them, securely perched on the bed above them, occasionally prodding at the ribs of whoever rolled closest with his foot.

Looking back, Brandon thinks he should have realized sooner that there was probably a reason he and Nick kept ending up in each other’s personal space without even the excuse of needing to rough each other up over some kind of half-imagined insult. Either they’d both been particularly in touch with their feelings and trying to ignore it, or they were just extremely dense. He’s not sure which option would be more embarrassing, honestly. It’s worked out okay, though, he figures. So far, at least.

* * *

They have a great start and a great third against the Flames, starting the trip off on the right foot, and Brandon just feels good all game, even if they do give one up on the PK. It’s one of those games that never feels in doubt, like they only have to work out the details of how they’re getting there to do it. The second line have another good night, and Clendo gets his first, and with one thing and another it turns into a late night, although Brandon has mostly learned at this point how not to overdo it in that situation.

He does make sure to buy Clendo a drink early enough that he’ll remember it, and he’s only a little buzzed himself by the time he starts to heads back to his hotel room. It’s early enough in the trip and cold enough out that no one really wants to try and go much further afield anyway; Brandon’s in the majority when he announces that he’s going straight back to his room when they’re done at the bar, giving Clendening another pat on the back which just about sends him face-first into the beer he’s still working on.

Shawzy’s wound up and prickly from being stuck in the press box, he’s never handled being out on IR well. Even with the win there’s still a bit of an edge to his tone, though he tries to bury it under hectic congratulations to Clendo before spending half an hour straight bugging Sharpy and Seabs. Seabs is starting to look like he’s about done with him when Brandon seizes his opportunity and grabs Andy by the elbow, dragging him away and distracting him with an aggressively nonchalant conversation about nothing much in particular. He gets Shawzy to tell him how the dogs are doing, and Brandon promises to come over to help take them for a run on the beach before it starts getting icy out again, half as a favor to Andy and Chaunette and half out of pure self-interest; it’s always fun. After that he gets an in-depth description of their current failure to learn any of the new obedience training stuff that Shawzy’s been working on with them, which is so par for the course that Brandon’s nodding along and admittedly only half-listening by the point that Andy interrupts himself mid-sentence to punch Brandon’s shoulder — maybe harder than he meant to, maybe not; he’s had a couple drinks too — and say, “Thanks, Saader.”

Brandon raises an eyebrow. It’s always safer to just let Shawzy run himself out, and he’s not going to say anything unless he’s pushed, either. He’s learned his lesson about digging himself deeper.

“Thanks for not just standing back until you had to help Seabs hide the body,” Andy clarifies, and he looks less tense now, too; less brittle around the edges than he had done.

“I wouldn’t have helped him hide your body,” Brandon promises him solemnly. “That’s what he’s got Duncs for.”

Andy laughs harder at that than anyone else in earshot, which just proves that Brandon knows his audience.

He finishes his drink and waves a goodnight to Shawzy a few minutes after that. Brandon might feel a little stung sometimes by the old-and-boring jokes, but he’d rather get an hour’s extra sleep ninety-nine times out of hundred, so he’s got good at letting that just roll off him. It seems like most of the guys feel the same, or they’re just saving it for later in the roadie, because there’s more of them waiting for the elevator up to their rooms than will comfortably fit in it by the time they walk back through the lobby.

Brandon lets a few of the other guys go first, hanging back. Nordstrom does the same, and they’re companionably quiet in the elevator when it comes back, take turns in the bathroom when they make it into their room. Brandon finds an outlet behind the bedside drawer and plugs his phone in, scrolling through email and messages from the comfort of his bed, propped up with a few pillows behind him.

“You want the A/C?” Nordy asks him, toothbrush still in hand, and Brandon shrugs. “Whatever works for you, man.”

He’s not too cold or anything; it’s a perfectly comfortable temperature to sit up in bed, even just wearing shorts to sleep in and with the lightweight comforter over his legs. Nordy does something to the climate control remote, but Brandon doesn’t notice much difference as he keeps thumbing through messages.

He sends a quick message to Nick while he’s got the time and a scrap of privacy, just ‘hi’ and a recommendation for the steak place they’d gone to, thinking ahead in case they’re stuck for ideas whenever the Isles do their western Canada swing. Brandon can never remember any of the good places to eat anywhere but Chicago or Pittsburgh off the top of his head, he has to write them down or save them in his phone if he thinks he might want to come back. It does mean he’s built up a good list for everywhere in their division, at least. He adds a “kick some ass tomorrow” at the last second, even though he knows it’s late enough out east that Nick almost certainly won’t see it until Friday morning anyhow.

Brandon hits the light by his bed and turns over, letting himself relax into sleep almost immediately. If Nordy snores after he’s been drinking then Brandon’s dead to the world himself too fast to notice.

* * *

Team dinner in Edmonton the next night is a little more subdued than usual; Brandon’s well aware that they have a mixed record in Alberta over the past few years, and taking the Oilers for granted has a tendency to come back and bite you. Crow’s quieter than usual and a little grouchy and weirdly enough so is Rants, which is out of character. Brandon decides to leave well enough alone and lets the goalies anchor one end of the long table, scooting himself in between Shawzy and Duncs instead.

The nice thing about being in Canada is that all three TVs in the room are actually set to hockey already, and Brandon doesn’t even have to crane his neck to keep an eye on the Pens game. He’s not the only one, of course; most of them are, and he’s probably not even the only one who’s paying a little extra attention any time he sees a 2 out on the ice.

The Isles hang three on Fleury in about ninety seconds flat, and about half the table makes an appreciative noise as Strome’s goes in to make it 3-1. The Pens get back in it near the end of the period, though, and Brandon tunes out for a bit, caught up in a discussion of what Duncs’ next charity event is going to involve. He happens to look up from his salmon at the right moment to see Nick score in the second, though, and Shawzy’s reaching over to fist-bump him — “that’s our boy!” he crows — before he can even think to second-guess his reaction.

Despite a fair bit of practice, he’s not always the best at guarding his face, but no one’s said anything or — more importantly — looking at him funny, so most likely the mixed set of emotions that had rolled through him at that moment are ones he can keep private. He’s happy for Nick, of course; it’s not a game that’s likely to affect the Hawks all that much one way or another so he’s got the space for that, and it’s good to see him doing well. He’d be a pretty terrible friend, let alone boyfriend if he couldn’t be happy to see him pick up a goal. He’s a little jealous, sure; the goals still aren’t coming as fast as he’d like himself at this point, but mostly he just doesn’t like the unsettled feeling of seeing Nick in what the back of his mind still stubbornly insists from time to time on calling the wrong jersey.

Brandon makes himself push that thought aside and applies himself to finishing his dinner instead; it’s good enough that it deserves more of his attention. He manages to keep his focus off the TV long enough that he’s actually confused when he glances up to catch a replay of whatever had made Shawzy hiss appreciatively to find that the score’s now tied.

They’re done with dinner shortly afterward, and Brandon has to check his phone to see who’d taken it in OT. He checks in on the group text to see if anyone else has said anything yet, but there’s nothing much there other than Shawzy asking Boller if he knew where to find his forecheck, and Bollig replying almost immediately that it was “in the dictionary right next to ‘fuck you’, thanks Shawzer“, which makes Brandon actually snort out loud, because well played, Boller.

Brandon goes back to their private conversation — he hasn’t deleted that in a while, and in what’s become habit, he scrolls through quickly, before deciding that there’s nothing too incriminating in there at the moment and leaving it. He sends a couple of thumbs up emojis, and adds, “Shawzy and I caught your goal tonight”, just in case it’s not obvious what that’s for.

Nick’s clearly still messing around on his phone over on the east coast, because Brandon’s phone buzzes in his hand, just a row of cheesy smiley faces, and then a few seconds later, “You around?”

Brandon’s chest goes tight at that. He really wants to say yes, but— he’s got almost no privacy right now, and it’s meant to be an early night.

He compromises between what he wants and what he should do.

“Sort of? Oilers tomorrow, just kicking back in the hotel with Nordy now.”

That’s probably clear enough; he can’t talk, or at least he can’t do anything more than talking.

“You watching the Food network again?” Nick comes back again almost instantly, and Brandon grins to himself. Sounds like Nick’s kind of bored, and while he can’t exactly entertain him the same way he might if he was at home by himself, well. At least they can still talk.

“Everyone likes Chopped,” Brandon messages back. “It’s a cornerstone of modern society.”

“You’re full of it, Saader,” Nick replies.

“You watch the Real Housewives of where ever the fuck it is,” Brandon says, and there’s a long pause while they both appreciate that for the burn it was.

“At least I don’t DVR it,” Nick finally replies, and Brandon snorts. Nordy looks away from the TV which, to be fair, Brandon has hardly paid any attention to, it might not even be on the Food network anymore, and raises an eyebrow, checking if it’s anything worth sharing.

Brandon shakes his head, and shrugs one shoulder. “Just giving Leds shit for his taste in TV.”

“Ah,” Nordy says, and turns his attention back to whatever Alex Guarnaschelli is doing. Brandon totally respects that.

“Weak, man, weak,” Brandon messages back after a moment’s thought. “You get tomorrow off or no?”

He could just look it up, sure, but it’s faster to just ask sometimes. Brandon doesn’t always remember his own schedule very far in advance, but he always knows what he’s doing tomorrow.

“Back to back,” Nick messages back. “Pens again.”

“Maybe try to get the next one in regulation,” Brandon sends him, without second-guessing himself too much. That’s well within the normal bounds of teasing.

“Ha ha,” Nicks sends back, and Brandon can absolutely hear the eye roll which would’ve accompanied that in real life. “Remind me who has more goals again?”

Ouch, that one is— a little below the belt. Brandon probably had it coming, but he still has to push back the reflexive flare of frustration.

“Wanna bet who has more points by the time we play you?” Brandon says, a little recklessly. It’s not like he’s having trouble putting up points, but it can’t hurt to push himself a little more.

“Sure,” Nick says. “What are we betting?”

“Winner picks,” Brandon replies without any hesitation.

Nick’s clearly picking up what he’s putting down there, because he just replies “You’re on”, and then “Gotta turn my phone off now, actually. Later, Saader.”

“Goodnight,” Brandon says, under his breath, without even thinking about it, but when he cuts his eyes over to Nordy he’s still engrossed in the TV, so he’s probably fine.

Brandon rolls over on the bed to plug his phone back in, checks his alarm’s set again, and then scoots down under the covers properly.

“You want the light off?” Nordy asks, and Brandon stretches, yawns and says, “Nah, just get it when you’re done.” It won’t keep him awake, so he’s really not bothered.

Besides, he’s got a bet to win. He needs to be well-rested.

* * *

On their second shift, Hoss sends Brandon a sweet pass off the boards, and he gets a step on the D, backhands it to Tazer, comes in to support him in case there’s a rebound but a second later the puck’s in the back of the net. It’s a nice start, and when Krugs adds a second goal on their second shot, well.

Some days just go your way.

Brandon’s been on the ice for other games like this, ones that feel like they’re going to be a blowout that then spectacularly blow up in your face, and no one’s going to take for granted that they’ll get to dictate terms the rest of the game, but even early in the first period it feels like this one’s in the bag. The Oilers don’t back off, and there’s more than enough scoring threats in blue and orange that Brandon isn’t going to let his defensive game lapse, but Crow’s locked in and the puck just keeps finding Hawks sticks.

He gets a second point late in the second, after the frustration spills over into far too many penalties for both sides, although at least the Hawks power-play is the only one that manages to convert, and he feels like he’s been right in front of the paint for half the pucks that go in. No matter what the defense throws at them, their systems are working, ticking along like clockwork, and Brandon just keeps going to the net. Scrivens looks somewhere between pissed and resigned every time Brandon catches a glimpse of his face behind the mask, especially given that most of those times Brandon’s right in his kitchen.

He’s tantalizingly close to getting another point or two, on Scrivens and then on Fasth when he goes in after the Oilers coaching staff finally take pity and yank Scrivens. Almost everyone has at least one point, no reason he shouldn’t add a couple more himself. The Oilers get one back to lose Crow his shutout, but it’s definitely a game they can be proud of, overall. By the time they hit the end of regulation, the Oilers look like they’re just glad it’s over, and Brandon skates over to give Crawford a head-pat and congratulations with a sense of deep satisfaction.

There’s no way they’ll be going out tonight, even with such a lopsided scoreline; they’ve got the flight to Vancouver and the Canucks waiting on the second half of this back-to-back. It’s hard to work up a lot of concern, though; they’ve been clicking through this roadie so far. Brandon’s mood takes a bit of a dip when Shawzy and Mo come down from the press-box though, saying all the right things in their game day suits, but both looking tense in their own ways. With Shawzy it tends to make him louder now, and any time they’re off the ice or around the hotel, but he’s been quieter than usual this week, and he’s overly focused in a way that makes Brandon actually kind of miss being half-tackled any time he skates by. If anyone ever figures out how to give a piggy-back ride to someone wearing hockey skates, Shawzy will be first, second and third in line.

Morin just looks resigned, but he’s sincere enough when he fist-bumps Brandon, and Smitty, talking to Hossa about his goal in the second.

Versteeg has the music cranked up even louder than usual, like they’re trying to accomplish in volume what they won’t in blood alcohol levels, but it mostly just means Brandon has to lean into Seabs’ stall and yell “What?” right in his ear when he tries to say something as they’re changing.

Brandon rushes through his shower and back into his suit, but isn’t remotely close to being done by the time that the locker room’s half cleared out of both people and equipment. Apparently talking to Shawzy had taken him longer than he’d realized, and he hits the bus at a half-speed jog just in case. He’s not the last guy on by a long shot — Duncs usually has that covered — but it does mean he doesn’t get to zone out leaning against a window with his phone while they wait to leave; instead he sits with Bicks and tries to talk over top of Steeger reliving his goal — with over-the-top gestures — over Facetime to his wife.

“You’re dicks,” Steeger says, turning around in his seat to more effectively complain, and Brandon and Bicks just snicker.

“Brittany thinks we’re funny,” Bicks says, which is actually probably true, because she has a hand over her mouth, but is clearly trying to hold back a giggle.

“She’s laughing at you, not with you,” Steeger says. “Right, honey?”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, man,” Brandon says, and laughs again when Steeger just raises one hand to flip them off without turning around again.

It feels like it takes forever to get back to the airport; they still hit traffic even though it’s late, the perils of a Saturday night game, Brandon figures. It’s another short hop to Vancouver, but this time Brandon makes himself sleep as long as he can on the plane, because tomorrow’s going to be a long, long day.

* * *

Sunday feels even longer than Brandon expects; they don’t get in to their hotel too late after all, but it’s a short night’s sleep, a rushed morning, and a frustrating game. It doesn’t seem too out of hand early on; Brandon’s confident they can get back in it, but the wheels come off in the third, and almost before they know it their win streak’s been snapped and they’ve lost to the Canucks. No one’s in a particularly good mood afterward.

Brandon escapes without really having to talk to anyone in room — he hadn’t shown up on the box score for better or worse, and as usual the core guys are the ones juggling all the press and having to spout off sound bites. Brandon’s just as happy to avoid that, especially since they’ll have even more cameras in the room soon, with the Winter Classic stuff starting up.

He’s not nervous about that, exactly, but the additional scrutiny seems more dangerous, and he knows he’ll just be happier when it’s done. Brandon usually doesn’t mind the cameras as much as some of the other guys do, but with him and Nick doing— what they’re doing, he’s hoping he can avoid some of the additional attention. At least he doesn’t have a cute kid, very visible girlfriend or a letter on his jersey; probably he’s going to be able to just fade into the background.

And if nothing else, Shawzy tends to be happy to mug for a camera at any opportunity. Brandon would be lying if he tried to tell anyone he’d never taken advantage of that. And Shawzy’s self-aware enough that sometimes that’s why he’ll do it, too; which Brandon appreciates, not that he’d say so in quite so many words. Letting Andy climb all over him when Boller or Bicks aren’t around seems like a fair trade. Smitty just dumps him on his ass most of the time, which according to Shawzy is symbolic of— something, Brandon didn’t really follow the argument last time, he’d been four beers deep and trying to sneak away to text Leds anyway.

That thought’s enough to make Brandon pick the seat by Shawzy on the bus, though. They haven’t hung out as much this road trip; Brandon’s been trying to be a good roommate and an okay boyfriend, which means he hasn’t spent a lot of time in Shawzy’s room, and given how unusually still he is on the bus, Brandon’s starting to think maybe he should have.

“Tomorrow off at least,” Brandon says, breaking the silence.

“Yep,” Shawzy says, and Brandon waits, but apparently that’s all he’s saying.

Brandon turns in his seat, so he’s looking straight at Andy, his knee digging in to the side of his thigh - they’re really not very wide seats - and so he can’t look away.

“C’mon, Shawzy, didn’t they say you should be back next game?”

Andy brightens up a little at that. “Yeah,” he says, “but, I just— fucking Vancouver.”

“Yeah,” Brandon says, because, well, what else can he say?

“You wanna see this clip Leds sent me?” Brandon asks, pulling up youtube on his phone because it’s not as if Shawzy’s gonna say no.

“Sure, hit me,” Shawzy says, and they watch dumb drunk people getting stuck in an elevator, and then the next three videos that are linked after it.

* * *

They’re halfway through the trip — in games played, at least, if not necessarily in terms of days away from home — and Brandon’s starting to get a little stir-crazy. It’s just a long time to be away from home and a normal routine, and there’s only so much of that which can follow through on the road, what with travel and the various different hotel arrangements and the usual random shit that tends to happen when large groups travel. The team management do their best to cover everything and make it as easy as they can, but it’s not ideal.

They get stuck forever in Vancouver getting through Customs; being able to do all that paperwork before they head to the airfield doesn’t help as much as Brandon would have expected, back when he was stuck on buses for hours at a time and daydreaming of switching to charter flights instead. Flying is almost as tiring, the only benefit is it’s usually over a lot faster. And, okay, the food is significantly better.

At least this is the longest trip they have this year and getting it out of the way early seems infinitely preferable to having to tackle it while making that last push before the playoffs. And sure, as Seabs pointed out when Brandon had said as much, technically they do have one longer run of games away from the UC, but with the All-Star break in the middle it doesn’t feel nearly as daunting. Brandon makes a mental note to plan something; obviously there isn’t much that’s going to be as good as the Olympic break last year, but almost five full days off is still nothing to sneeze at.

By the time they make it to Denver Brandon feels grimy and like he’s been awake too long, and he’s a little grateful that going back to mountain time is going to mean a fractionally earlier night than the last couple. He’s also missing Nick more acutely — they haven’t done more than leave each other short messages for a couple days now — and more than anything else he’s missing having more than five minutes privacy at a time. There’s a reason he lives by himself.

Like he’s been doing for the last couple of days, Brandon lets Nordy have the bathroom first, and then once he’s out he takes a slightly-longer-than-usual shower which, well. He's pretty sure jerking it in the shower is one of the NHL's less-heralded but equally long-standing traditions. It just seems more polite, even though he's known guys who didn't give a shit who heard or saw them. That's never been Brandon's style, though.

The water pressure is surprisingly good for a hotel, and the hot water hasn’t run out yet, so Brandon lets himself take his time; eyes closed as he touches himself, hands slippery with the hotel-issue soap, feet braced apart so that he won’t slip, or take an embarrassing header out of the tub and onto his face.

It doesn’t take long for the bathroom to fill with steam, the humid air easier to breathe, and Brandon can feel droplets beading on his eyelashes, dripping down from where a half-blocked nozzle in the shower spray is firing sideways, running into his hair and down onto his face. He keeps his lips pressed together, jaw locked; he doesn’t usually make a lot of noise but he’s playing it safe just in case.

He gets himself worked up fast and easy, holds his breath to let the sensation roll through him, but at the last second it slips out of his grasp, so close to coming and yet he can’t quite reach—

Brandon adjusts his grip, works his dick faster, focuses on a fantasy that usually gets him there, a mental snapshot of— well, it’s usually Nick, especially now, it would be silly to deny that to himself. So he thinks about Nick’s hands; big and competent and so clever against his skin, and that’s enough to get him back on track, have him coming hard under the shower spray, letting his forehead fall towards the tiled wall to rest on his forearm where he’s braced against it.

He’s still breathing too fast as he rinses off properly, hair dripping in his eyes, and he deliberately inhales and exhales a few times, careful to breathe in through his nose, still as silent as possible. He feels good; lazy and warm and mostly content, and even more tired than he had done earlier, like all his limbs are weighed down. That’s probably equal parts the orgasm and the altitude, and he’s more than happy to just towel himself off enough to count as mostly dry before letting himself back into the room and crawling into his bed.

He falls properly asleep so fast that that when he wakes up the next morning he has no memory at all of Nordy hitting the lights or of the conversation that he swears they’d had before that. He’s also got an obvious pillow crease on his face, and his phone is completely out of battery, but all things considered Brandon’s calling it a good night’s sleep.

* * *

The altitude in Denver hits them hard, like it always does; Brandon thinks the words ‘short shifts’ are going to be engraved inside his head by the end of the third, they’ve heard it repeated so often. Keeping up with the Avs means an even faster pace than they usually play with, the combined curse and blessing of taking on a team that also has speed to burn.

The power-play is clicking, at least, and even if he doesn’t get points on the board he’s been able to be an effective screen — a too-effective one the time he got shoved into Pickard, sure, but there’d been no call on it so whatever. Bicks puts them up in the last few minutes and then it’s just shift after shift of trying to hang on by the skin of their teeth. Crow’s been a fucking brick wall and he keeps them in it long enough to get the points. They’re three and one on the trip so far, and with most places closed for Thanksgiving before they travel for one last back-to-back in California, that means that virtually no one’s getting back to their hotel before midnight.

Brandon finds himself between Shawzy and Mo while they eat, and if Shawzy had been unusually quiet earlier in the trip he’s making up for it in spades now, talking nineteen-to-the-dozen until Brandon elbows him and tells him to chew with his mouth closed, thanks. He’s understandably thrilled to have picked up a goal his first game back, and he and half the team do a round of shots at the bar for “being fucking awesome at hockey” and then again just because.

Brandon taps out about the time they start considering inventing a peanut-butter-and-jelly themed shot for Richie’s line, because Versteeg has terrible ideas when he’s been drinking. He beats Nordy back to their room, although he’s not sure by how much. He’s just enough past sober to think messaging Nick then anyway is a good idea, high on the win and wanting more.

He kicks his shoes off, and sits down on the end of his bed. He’s maybe slightly drunker than he’d realized, because he misjudges it a little, and nearly slides right off. The mattress is too soft, which doesn’t help, so instead he tips backwards and then sinks into it. His phone’s in his hand still, from when he’d checked down in the lobby to make sure he was remembering today’s room number correctly, and it’s so easy to wake the screen up again, to dial Nick’s number. It’s… before 1am in New York, probably. Brandon’s not too drunk to convert from Mountain to Eastern.

Brandon toes his socks off while the phone rings, letting them drop onto the floor at the end of the bed before he relaxes again, knees and ankles hanging over the end of the bed still. It’s nice and warm in the hotel room, at least.

The first clue that Nick’s not exactly sober either comes about three seconds later when he answers the phone with a gleeful “Saader!” instead of with his usual Midwestern stereotype phone manners.

Brandon grins to himself and tucks the phone closer to his ear. “Hey, Leds,” he drawls. “Good time to talk?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, and Brandon can hear some vague thuds on his end of the call, but no music or anything, so he probably is at home instead of out with his boys.

“Cool,” Brandon says inanely, and scratches idly over his ribs. Maybe he should have lost the shirt before calling.

“Where’re you?” Nick asks, and then there’s a muffled thump and he adds, “Ow.”

“Hotel,” Brandon answers, and then feeling that probably that’s not quite as much information as Nick was after, he adds, “Denver, still. We beat the Avs, though. What did you just do?”

“Good for you,” Nick says. “We beat the Caps. And I stepped on something. Maybe a shoe?”

Brandon heroically stifles his laughter. “Lower body injury, then?”

Nick makes a grumbling noise, deep in the back of his throat.

“I’d kiss it better,” Brandon says, before he can second-guess himself.

“There’s better things you could do with your mouth,” Nick says, not missing a beat.

Brandon starts to reply and finds his mind’s gone blank, too busy letting his imagination run riot on exactly what he could be doing if he was in a position to get his hands — and everything else — on Nick.

“Was that too much?” Nick asks, soft and calm, like it’s okay with him if it was, he can slow it down if he has to.

“No!” Brandon protests. “That was— fuck, you know I want to.”

“Wanna tell me about it?” Nick asks, and Brandon can picture him in his mind’s eye, lying back on his bed, one hand on his phone, maybe the other creeping towards his belt. Or his shorts, or sweats maybe; Brandon didn’t exactly stop for a reference image here.

“Yeah— no, wait,” Brandon corrects himself, and tries to get up in a hurry. He nearly trips over his own feet in the scramble to get to the hotel door, but he finds his balance in time, and leans against the door for a long moment, letting his head settle. He’s not all that drunk, not really, but the altitude and the long hard day are definitely hitting him some.

“Mmm?” Nick asks, and Brandon bites his lip before coming to a decision and sliding the security chain across the door. If need be, he can just play dumb like he forgot he had a roommate, and at least even if Nordy’s timing is terrible he won’t actually be able to walk right in.

“Just locking the door,” Brandon says.

Nick’s reply is simply an enlightened ‘aha’, and then as Brandon’s crawling back onto his bed again, he adds, “So we’re making this quick, huh?”

“Yes please,” Brandon says, closing his eyes so he can focus on Nick’s voice better.

“So where are you now?” Nick asks.

“On the bed,” Brandon says, and then compelled to offer more detail, adds, “The one closest to the door, it would almost be big enough to fit us both.”

“Good start,” Nick says, and his voice is warm, words coming softer than usual after he’s had a few, just like Brandon remembers.

“Where are you?” Brandon asks, rubbing slow circles on his stomach, not quite ready to go for his dick yet, even if he does know they have to be fast.

“My bed,” Nick says, “I got these really great sheets.” He makes a pleased little noise, and Brandon thinks he can maybe hear the mattress creak, as if Nick’s rolling around a little.

“Is this an IKEA review or are we trying to get off here?” Brandon complains, not really meaning it. He’s just a lot more invested in Nick than in the thread count of his sheets.

“I thought you’d be interested,” Nick says. “They’re really soft, I bet they’re going to feel great when I get to fuck you on them.”

Brandon chokes on air, just a little, and he knows Nick can hear it because he laughs, although there’s a frantic edge to it.

“You do, huh,” Brandon says, and he lets his hand slide inside his shorts now, palm smoothing over the jut of his hipbone, fingertips dragging over skin and hair. “I wish you were here now.”

“What would I do— what are you doing now?” Nick asks, and Brandon can hear how his breathing’s picked up, fast and eager.

“Thinking about taking my pants off,” Brandon says.

“You should do that,” Nick says. “Remember last time, you probably don’t want to explain that to your roommate.”

“Yeah,” Brandon says, and he wriggles on the bed, trying to get his pants and undershorts off, hissing as he works the elastic waistband over his dick, which is already definitely on board with this program.

“You hard yet?” Nick asks, and Brandon lets himself moan audibly as he curls his fingers back around his dick, stroking up from the base to the head, tight and smooth.

“Yeah,” he says. “Since I started talking to you.”

“Fuck,” Nick says, with some feeling. “Fuck, your hands are so good, Saader, I want that again.”

“Soon,” Brandon promises, letting himself remember how good it felt to touch Nick, finally; to actually get his hands all over him. “You’re touching yourself, right? This isn’t just me?”

“Not gonna leave you hanging,” Nick says. “I’m taking it slow, but I don’t have to worry about anyone else walking in, so.”

Brandon’s dick twitches a little at that, and it’s not that he wants anyone to walk in, not really, but it’s kind of hot to imagine all the same. Thinking about someone looking at him like this, shirt creased and half undone, pants kicked carelessly down to the foot of the bed, one hand on his dick and his phone jammed up against his ear. He makes a little more noise, hand moving faster, thumb rubbing circles around the head. He shifts on the mattress, switches his grip up, rubbing his palm lightly over the head, enough to get his hand wet, since there’s no way he’s getting up to dig through his bag for anything else to use as lube.

“Fuck, Brandon,” Nick says, and Brandon can’t help but make another sound in response to that, knows he’s letting Nick down by not actually holding up his end of this deal, but he can’t— he’s so close, wound up so tight so fast. Talking his way through this seems too difficult, his tongue’s clumsy and words are slippery. Apparently he doesn’t need to, though, because Nick’s still talking, and his voice in Brandon’s ears is almost enough to build the illusion that he’s present. Brandon closes his eyes again and lets it all wash over him, pretends it’s Nick’s hand slowing on his skin, Nick scratching his nails lightly along the line of his thigh before coming back to his cock, his touch sure and confident.

“You’re so hot,” Nick’s saying. “I want to watch, next time, you can show me how you get yourself off, your fucking hands, Saader, fuck.”

It doesn’t even take all that much imagining. Brandon remembers how fast he came with Nick’s weight on him, his hands soft and his mouth hot and wet and eager.

He finds his voice again just when he feels like he’s getting close, interrupts Nick, “Yeah, whatever you want, I just— fuck, you felt so good. Oh god, I’m really close, Leds, are you?”

“Getting there,” Nick says, “You should, uh, you’re doing so good, Saader.”

Brandon’s panting now, knows it must be audible, but he’s teetering right on the edge, wrist aching a little where he’d caught a stray stick earlier. It’s not enough to make him stop though, not now he’s thinking about Nick on top of him again, Nick sliding down to blow him, and that’s the last little push he needed, hand tightening almost too much as his back arches up off the mattress, hips jerking helplessly as he comes.

He’s talking too fast and maybe a little too loud after, wipes his hand off on his thigh and instantly regrets it, because okay, not quite as bad as coming in his pants, but he’s a fucking mess; there’s a reason he usually just jerks off in the shower when they’re on the road.

“C’mon, Leds,” he says, because maybe he’s sobering up a bit more now if the back of his mind’s worried about practical things, but first and foremost he wants to get Nick off as well, he deserves as good an orgasm as Brandon just had at the very least. “Some time soon, huh?”

“Gonna just point out,” Nick says, also panting, “That this is like the third time you’ve come first, I don’t think you should be, fuck, criticizing. Nothing wrong with having some stamina.”

“Right,” Brandon drawls. “You still want some help over there?”

“Just keep talking,” Nick says, a tinge of desperation coloring his voice, and Brandon thinks he can hear the faintest whisper of sound, the wet slide of hands on skin.

“I’m on speaker?” Brandon asks, and Nick huffs out an affirmative noise. “So you’re using both hands, right? You could go a little faster for now, make me go slower when I’m there. Fuck, I had, did I tell you, I had fucking beard burn all over for three days, that last time, maybe I’ll see how you like that—” That’s not exactly why Brandon hasn’t shaved yet, or at least not the only reason why, but he’s not going to deny that it’s a benefit.

Nick makes a strangled noise, and by the time it resolves into actual coherent words he’s just swearing, no less fervently for all that it’s quiet; “Fuck, Saader, fucking— fuck, warn a guy, you’re, uh, too good at that. _Fuck_.”

“Guess I don’t have to ask if it was good for you,” Brandon says, knowing full well he’s being a cliche and feeling too warm and satisfied to care all that much.

“No one likes a showoff,” Nick says, but his heart’s clearly not in it; he sounds as smug as Brandon feels.

“Want to schedule a repeat performance in a couple weeks?” Brandon asks.

“Sounds good,” Nick says, and then yawns, which sets Brandon off in turn.

“Oh shit,” Brandon says, turning his head to catch sight of the glowing green LEDs of the alarm clock. It’s late for him, which means it’s even later for Nick. “I should— you should go. And I need to go unlock the door again.”

“Yeah, good point,” Nick says. “This was— I’m glad you called.”

“Me too,” Brandon says softly. “Oh, right, Nick? Have a good Thanksgiving.”

Nick laughs quietly, and Brandon gets it; it feels kind of weird to say that, right after everything else, but it feels appropriate, too, for what they’re trying to do. What they’re trying to be.

“You too,” Nick says. “Talk to you later, B.”

“Night,” Brandon says, and lets his phone disconnect automatically, dropping it onto the pillow by his head. He feels good; muscles sore the way they are any time he’s worked hard, the after-effects of both the game and getting off. He lets himself wallow for a few seconds longer and then forces himself to get up and deal with practicalities. He makes a desultory effort to clean himself up, washing his hands in the bathroom and then pulling on a clean pair of sweats to sleep in.

He leaves the bathroom fan running for a couple of minutes while he tugs the blankets he’d kicked off back onto his bed, flips the main light off and then goes over to unhook the chain on the door. He can’t believe he’s gotten away with this; it’s more private time than he’s had on the road in maybe forever, at least any time he’s had a roommate. The Swedish Mario Kart tournament must’ve gotten really vicious. He’s pretty sure that’s what Hammer had said they were doing, anyway. It’s still going to be pretty fucking obvious what Brandon was doing whenever Nordstrom does get back, but they’ve both shared rooms on the road for years now; the code is that you just don’t ever talk about it. Brandon can totally live with that, he figures, and crawls back into bed. He stretches out under the blankets, thinks for half a second how good it would be if he could be wrapped around Nick now, worn out and ready to sleep, and that’s the last thing he remembers until his alarm goes off the next morning.

* * *

Thanksgiving’s quiet; a team meal and then travel to LA; Brandon spends as much of the day as he can possibly manage napping, dozing or eating. He thinks he even fell asleep on the bus on the way to the airport, but he’s too groggy to tell for sure if he’d actually got all the way asleep.

LA is sunny and warm like it always seems to be; it’s only in the 70s but that feels practically tropical after the last few weeks. Brandon takes a walk outside, enjoying the later-than-usual daylight as well as the warmth, and finds somewhere quiet to call home; his mom and dad are both there, although apparently George had headed back to his own place after they’d eaten.

It’s good to talk to them for a solid chunk of time, and Brandon almost loses track, caught up in telling his mom about the trip so far. His dad gives him a hard time about his fantasy football team and how miserably it’s failing in their extended family bracket, but that’s par for the course. They don’t ask about Nick and Brandon doesn’t volunteer anything, although he gets the sense his mom, at least, is talking around it.

He’s still missing them acutely when he gets back to the hotel, not quite homesick but just that little bit too conscious of what he’s missing out on. It’s worth it, though; it always has been so far. Nordy’s stretched out on his bed watching something on his computer intently, headphones in, so Brandon doesn’t have to make conversation with him either, just waves to make sure he’d seen him come in, and then goes to get everything he’ll need tomorrow laid out and ready to go.

They’ll at least get two nights in that hotel, so Brandon doesn’t worry all that much when he can’t find the tie he’d been planning to wear for the Ducks game at first, just dumps his bag out on the bed and paws through the pile of everything that wasn’t in his suit bag. He throws socks and underwear and three other ties back into it, and then gets distracted untangling three pairs of headphones that had got all wound together. He likes having a spare just in case something breaks when they’re traveling; they don’t always have time to get replacements.

He gives up on finding the tie and just shoves everything else back into the bag; he can deal with it in the morning or the day after. If he has to wear the same tie two days running he doubts anyone would notice, anyway. And he’s not superstitious about that, not like some of the guys he knows. He’s less concerned about keeping his bag neat at this point on the trip; they’re on the home stretch now, and Brandon is definitely looking forward to seeing his own bed again soon.

His shaving kit, toiletries and toothbrush are in a separate bag, a habit he’s glad he trained himself into, so he fishes that out of the mess easily enough. He doesn’t have an elaborate facial hair grooming routine or anything like that — no matter what Shawzy might claim — but he takes a few minutes to neaten up before getting ready for bed. They’ve got an early game tomorrow, which means an early night; Brandon plans to sleep right up to the very last minute when his alarm goes off.

* * *

The trainers are riding them hard throughout the day, from the meeting at the hotel before the game, to their arrival at Honda Center. They remind everyone not to share their water bottles, to wash their hands thoroughly, to try and touch as little as possible in the visitor’s locker rooms. Brandon sure as hell doesn’t want to catch whatever it is that’s going round. Most of them had had booster shots as soon as the team offered them; the guys with small children at home are even more paranoid.

The game against the Ducks is just as fast and tough as any time they’ve come into Anaheim; the Ducks might be missing a few from their roster but they don’t exactly roll over. Brandon doesn’t put any points up, but he still feels good about the game; they’d all played solidly and even Quenneville is complimentary by the time they’re done. The early game makes the notion of another back-to-back hurt a little less; they got in, they got out, with two points in the bag and only one game to go before they head home again.

Dinner is as a team, again, and Brandon’s happy enough to sit mostly quietly, listening to Smitty and Shawzer give each other shit. Brandon makes a show of checking his calendar on his phone after they’ve had their mains, “Just to see when Movember is over,” because seriously, looking at Shawzy’s pornstache by that point is enough to put anyone off their food.

“Mo’s is worse, though.” Andy argues, and Morin flicks a green bean at him but doesn’t bother trying to actually defend himself. Brandon’s just happy he avoided having to do it this year; he’d much rather just donate.

By the time they’re done eating and head back to their rooms, most of the east coast games have finished up, and Brandon stretches out on his bed with his laptop, idly fucking around online, clicking into a few highlights that look decent. He could put on the TV, but flipping through to find whatever sports channels they might have seems like more trouble than it’s worth.

He hits the Panthers game and stops, grinning to himself before reaching over to the night stand to pick up his phone.

Tro’s still in his most recently called list; they’d caught up a couple weeks ago after he’d been called up from San Antonio, and they’d been at home, so Brandon figures he’s got at least a fifty percent chance of catching him. He sits up again, drains a bottle of water and then stops flipping his phone over in his hand, hitting the screen to start dialing with his thumb while he scratches at the back of his neck with his other hand.

The phone rings a couple of times, and then Tro answers it with a loudly cheerful “Saader!”

“Congratulations, your caller ID works,” Brandon says, letting himself lean back into the pillow he’d stuffed behind himself for a little back support.

“Whatever,” Tro says blithely, “give me all of your congratulations anyway, I fucking earned ‘em.”

“Oh yeah, what’d you do?” Brandon asks, knowing full well where he’s going with this.

“First star of the game,” Vince crows, and Brandon knows him well enough to imagine the grin he has to be wearing, just this side of obnoxious, and as endearing as fuck once you actually get to know him. There’s a few reasons Brandon gets on well with Shawzy, and one of them is that he’s had a lot of practice.

“Nice work,” Brandon says, because credit where it’s due. “Great pass to Hayesy, man.”

“Aww, you’re checking up on me,” Vince coos, and Brandon laughs and just says, “Oh, fuck you, I saw one highlight.”

“And now here we are on the phone,” Vince says, “Just like old times, eh, cap?”

“That’s still weird,” Brandon says to him. Besides, he didn’t use to call when Tro did something good, he’d just yell across the bus or throw dirty socks at him or whatever. “So, you’re not out with your boys to celebrate?”

“Nah, maybe tomorrow,” Vince says. “Thought I’d follow your shining example and get some extra shutsy.”

“I sleep a perfectly normal amount,” Brandon protests, and Vince just snorts and doesn’t say anything for a moment. Brandon considers pointing out it’s actually pretty late out east as well but decides that discretion’s the better part of valor, there.

“So, what’s up with you?” Vince asks, and despite himself — despite this being kind of the reason he’s calling — Brandon tenses up a bit.

“Uh, not a lot, we’re in California,” Brandon says, as if Vince can’t read the schedule same as anyone else. “Early game today so we’re back at the hotel.”

“And?” Vince says.

“And what?” Brandon replies, a little rattled.

“Dude, I know you,” Vince says. “There’s something you wanna say, so spit it out already.”

“Um, I’m dating someone,” Brandon says. He’s planning on easing into this one, or at least as much as he can do.

“It’s a guy someone, right?” Vince asks. “Because no offense, but you’d be less weird about telling me if it was a girl. Unless you knocked someone up, I guess.” He pauses. “Saader, is there something you wanna tell me? I mean, I’m totally ready to be an uncle.”

“Jesus,” Brandon says, taken aback. “No, no one is pregnant. And didn’t you use to steal condoms off me instead of buying your own? You cheap asshole, by the way, don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Hey, shit happens,” Vince says. “So, what’s his name, where’d you meet him, is he dreamy?” He drawls out the last word like a bad imitation of a Disney channel teen romance, and even though this is exactly the amount of chirping Brandon was expecting to get anyway, he can still feel himself going a little red. He’s glad Nordy’s down the hall in Smitty’s room hanging with him and a few of the other guys, that’s for sure.

“Um,” Brandon says again. This is harder than he’d expected, and he’s been rehearsing this in his head ever since Nick had said he was fine with Brandon telling Tro as well as his family. “I’ve kind of known Nick for a few years?”

“Ohh,” Vince says, still teasing, and then he clearly puts two and two together entirely accurately, because he sounds totally serious when he goes on. “Wait. Nick as in, that Nick you won the Cup with and talk about _all the time_?”

“I don’t!” Brandon protests, although if he really thinks about it, maybe he does. Did. Whichever. “I mean, uh, yeah.”

Vince whistles, low and considering, like he’s buying time before he has to actually comment. Brandon feels a faint flash of irritation. It’s not like he’s asking for Tro’s blessing or whatever.

“What happened to ‘not dating on your team’?” he asks, carefully non-judgmental.

“Don’t know if you noticed, but he’s not exactly ‘on my team’ any more.” Brandon says, with a touch more bitterness than he’s actually let himself express to anyone else.

“Yeah, I guess I remember him wearing a different jersey a couple weeks ago,” Vince says. “Just— you’re really sure about this, Saader?”

“I really like him,” Brandon says quietly, after a pause to check that he couldn’t hear any footsteps outside, no one anywhere near his door.

There’s another pause, and Brandon’s wondering if he should say anything else, although he’s not exactly sure what else he would add, there.

“And you guys are good, yeah? It’s working out okay still?” Vince asks eventually.

“Yeah,” Brandon says. “It’s good, we’re just. Not telling many people yet?”

“Glad I still rate,” Tro says cheerfully.

Brandon snorts. “Always, you dick.”

“Must suck that you’re not getting laid, though,” Tro says, about as sympathetically as he ever gets.

“Uh, that’s not… a problem.” Brandon censors his original comment, because there’s talking to one of his best friends and then there’s over-sharing, and that would probably have been over the line.

“Ohh, I see,” Vince says, snickering. “Jerking it more now than you were in Junior, huh?”

“I don’t know why I talk to you sometimes,” Brandon says, with as much dignity as he can muster. “Anyway. What else is news?”

That’s enough to distract Tro — or maybe he’s just being considerate enough to pick up on the fact that Brandon doesn’t need to really talk any more about this right now and rolling with the subject change — and he’s off and rolling, telling Brandon what Hayes and Pirri have been up to, and Dyls, “Yeah, I saw his goal too,” Brandon interrupts to say, and exchanging stories about their mutual friends takes them through another ten to fifteen minutes easily.

Vince is yawning audibly by the time he wraps up a story that Brandon’s not entirely sure he believes — every goalie is kind of a weirdo but Brandon doesn’t think even Luongo can be that weird — and with a guilty look at the clock he remembers just how late it is out on the east coast.

“Hey, I should go,” Brandon says, because sometimes Tro can be a little stubborn if you try to do anything for him. “Message me and shit, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Vince says. “Definitely. Although I’m not sending you any more pics of hot dudes since you’re a kept man now and all that.”

“You never send me pictures of hot guys,” Brandon says, not sure what he’s going to do if Vince actually starts to.

“Fuck you, I send you selfies all the time,” Vince says, and okay, Brandon walked _right_ into that one.

“Good night, Vince,” he says firmly, mostly managing to hide the fact that he’d laughed at that too.

“Okay, bye,” Tro says, and then adds, “And hey, the Isles are in our conference, so if he breaks your heart I’ll break his face for you.”

“Thanks for that vote of confidence,” Brandon says. “I think we’ll be fine.”

“Just checking,” Vince says. “You know I’ve got your back.”

“Yeah, I really do,” Brandon says, “Later, man.”

“Bye,” Vince says, and this time he hangs up without any further smart-ass comments.

Brandon puts his phone back down on the nightstand and stretches out on the bed again. That had gone… about as well as it could do, mostly. Not a bad day overall, at all.

* * *

After the game against the Ducks, the Kings game feels like more of the same; it’s later in the day, so they’ve at least been able to keep closer to their regular game day routines, but once again they go up 2-0 to start, Crow’s a rock in net, the PK is fucking perfect, and Brandon feels like he’s had a solid individual game, too. He gets the empty-netter, too, which is a nice cherry on top, even if it would’ve been pretty fucking embarrassing to miss with a clear shooting lane from the blue line.

They have one last hotel night, rather than getting back to Chicago at like 6am, so Brandon doesn’t actually get to see his own bed until late in the afternoon, but it’s still the best nap he’s had all week.

He unpacks and makes a cursory effort at both sorting his laundry and setting up a grocery order; they’re going to be home for less than a week, so after tossing up Brandon decides to err on the side of getting a few more frozen meals from his meal service and only ordering the basics. He hasn’t forgotten coming home to two-week’s-past good vegetables in his crisper in his rookie year. They’d kind of liquefied, and that’s the kind of mistake he’d prefer to only make once.

When his phone buzzes again, Brandon’s still standing in front of the open refrigerator door, surveying his options and starting to feel the temptation of just ordering takeout, even if he’d kind of like something home-cooked by this point. He can’t quite work up enough motivation to do anything much when it’s just him, though. He shoves the orange juice back in the door — at least that’s still good for a week or so — and pulls his phone out of his back pocket to check it.

It’s Shawzy, inviting him over to him and Chaunette’s place for dinner — or, well, ordering him over for dinner; Shawzy isn’t exactly vague about it. But Brandon sure doesn’t have any better offers, and no matter how much they all give him a hard time, Andy’s not actually a bad cook. He’s better than Nick, that’s for sure.

“Sure, want me to bring anything?” Brandon sends him back, because he has good manners, thanks.

“Just your pretty face,” Andy replies, which makes Brandon roll his eyes and laugh, especially when it’s followed up a few minutes later by, “maybe some beer? Since you’re all legal now.”

“You’re ONE. YEAR. OLDER.” Brandon texts him back, because he knows his part in this bit, even if the joke is wearing a bit thin by this point. “I’m getting something you don’t like.” That’s sort of a misdirect, because Shawzy will drink anything, but Brandon’s going to pick something he likes rather than being the most courteous guest, put it that way.

It doesn’t take him long to pick something up or to get over to Shawzy’s apartment; he gets buzzed in, puts the beer in the fridge, and thanks them for the invitation. He gets roped into helping out five minutes later, too, which is so predictable that he’d actually left his hoodie on despite the central heating, just in case he wound up wearing half a tomato again.

Shawzy kicks him out of the kitchen ten minutes later, and Brandon heads into the living room with the ease of long familiarity. The dogs are curled up on the couch, and he drops onto it beside them, getting his jeans covered in dog hair in about a minute flat as they both try to climb into his lap. He gets some quality dog time in, fishing his phone out again to take pictures, and, after a moment’s thought, a short video clip. Nick doesn’t mention it much, but Brandon knows he misses his dog back in Minnesota, and he misses Andy’s dogs, too. Brandon’s heard enough stories about what ridiculous things Shawzy and Leds have done for the dogs over the last couple years to know that for sure.

“I think they miss Leds,” Shawzy says, coming back into the living room and handing Brandon a bottle.

Brandon quirks an eyebrow, still trying to stop Bails from rolling off the couch in his eagerness to get his belly rubbed.

“He looks pretty happy now,” Brandon says, looking down and grinning as Bails shivers with over-excitement.

“We went for a run on the beach, earlier,” Shawzy says, “They’re probably about to fall asleep, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He has Char curled up by his knee, scratching behind her ears almost absently.

“Seriously, I’ll go with you next time you wanna take them out for a while,” Brandon offers. He kind of misses having a dog too, if he’s honest. It really wouldn’t be fair to get one any time soon, which he knows; it’s not like he has anyone waiting at home who can take over when they’re on the road, not like Shawzy does.

“Cool,” Shawzy says, and he reaches out to scratch Bailey’s ears again, soft and indulgent.

“So did that kennel you guys made last more than a week, or what?” Brandon asks, because he’d kind of wondered when he saw the instagram post, and the last few times he’s been over to the apartment he’s been a bit— distracted.

He glances over automatically to the door to Nick’s old room — Chaunette said they were just going to make it a guest room unless the team wanted a rookie to move in or something — and hopes his face isn’t giving away too much of what he’s thinking.

“Fuck you,” Shawzy says cheerfully, “that thing was awesome.”

“And yet, I note your past tense,” Brandon says, and Shawzy salutes him with his bottle, conceding the point.

“Food’ll be ready soon,” Shawzy says, stretching out, arms above his head. “You should come over more, you know?”

Brandon’s looking down at Bailey, not sure if Shawzy’s still looking at him or not. “Hey, if you’re offering free meals, why wouldn’t I?”

“Always thinking with your stomach, Saader,” Shawzy says, which isn’t exactly what Brandon was expecting. He’d thought Andy was working back around to talking about Leds again, and Brandon would just as soon not. They’ll be in Long Island in two weeks, he thinks. That’s really not that far away.

Dinner is nice; quiet, mostly, or as quiet as any meal with Andrew Shaw involved is going to be. Chaunette catches them both up on what she’s been up to for the past two weeks, and Brandon tries not to feel a little like he’s intruding, the way she and Andy exchange looks, drifting off into their own little world a few times.

Shawzy doesn’t usually make a fuss about it in any way, but every time they’re on the road it’s blindingly obvious when he’s thinking about her. Brandon wouldn’t have picked it when they were all in Rockford, but Andy’s probably the most settled guy he knows, domesticity-wise. Depending on how Brandon’s feeling, it’s either cute as hell or frustrating. Though that’s usually only a thought he’ll express if he wants to start winding him up. Andy likes to maintain a certain image.

They’re finishing up — and all sneaking scraps to the dogs while trying not to let each other actually see, since they’re really not meant to, Shawzy keeps getting stern comments from their vet — when Andy mentions a show he wants to go to if they’re at home next month.

“Sure you can fit that into your busy coconut water advertising schedule?” Chaunette asks, tapping her nail on the side of the bottle by her plate with a smirk, and Andy mock-glares at her.

“You also have our schedule on your phone,” Brandon points out, and Andy flips him off, which he can get away with because it’s not like Brandon can tell him to sleep on the couch. Which is a mildly horrifying mental image, Brandon tries to yank his mind away from it immediately.

Brandon doesn’t stick around too long after dinner, just enough time to finish his drink before he makes himself scarce, because he’s not rude or dumb enough not to be thoroughly conscious of the fact that after a two week road trip, they’re probably going to want some couple time. He’s pretty happy with the chance to catch up on his DVR, call his folks, and maybe call Nick, too.


	4. December 2014

The EPIX film crew turn up early in the month at the UC, and it only takes a couple of days to feel like they’ve been there forever, somehow simultaneously in the way and becoming part of the scenery. Brandon’s been careful ever since the season started, but he’s even more careful now, clears his messages regularly, doesn’t talk to Nick unless he’s sure no one else is around. It feels uncomfortably much more like keeping a secret now, in a way it hadn’t before, when it had just seemed like guarding his privacy — their privacy — and keeping it close; new and maybe a little fragile.

Brandon doesn’t volunteer much when they’re hanging around in the room, or during off-ice work or video review; it helps that it’s not all that different to how he usually acts. He ducks out on the extra-curricular stuff they want to film, and when their director looks at him speculatively and makes noises about young, single guys living in the city, Brandon just grins and points out that he spends most of his time sleeping and eating. She takes that pretty well, which Brandon appreciates, and moves smoothly on to asking Carcillo about his family instead.

It’s easy enough after that first week to ignore the cameras during practice and pregame and the games themselves, to get used to just stepping around them, watching their language — Brandon hasn’t heard such a mostly G-rated locker room, well, ever. He suspects it won’t feel so easy whenever things stop going their way; it’s easy to be positive when you’re celebrating after games, handing around the championship belt, hollering and laughing when they’re putting up three or four goals almost every night.

It’s a good start to the month for both him and Nick; the Islanders are putting wins together too, almost as reliably as the Hawks, and that even more than the cameras being around means that Brandon doesn't get a lot of time to talk to Nick and that when they do they're at least both in good moods.

Nick's picking up assists at a decent clip, which is exactly what Brandon would've expected with him getting more minutes, but it's still nice to be proven right and to be able to appreciate his hard work. Brandon's actually a little jealous; he knows he should be putting the puck in the back of the net more than he has been, but he's trying not to over-think it.

They catch up on a lazy Sunday, one of the rare days they're both off, the week before the Hawks are due to head out to the Island. Brandon's looking forward to it and also trying to ignore the vague unease he's feeling about the upcoming trip. He knows he'll be fine on the day, when it comes down to it, but it's going to be odd to look across the ice and see Nick there, considering— well, everything they've done. Sure, it’s not the first time Nick’s been traded, but he’d been a Hawk ever since Brandon has been; one of the guys that, at the back of his mind, Brandon always kind of expected was going to stick around.

He puts that thought out of his mind long enough to get his laptop to boot up, opening up Skype and texting Nick quickly to check he's still free. Their conversation starts like normal — mostly with them grinning at each other — and exchanging hellos and easy small talk.

"Hey, I wanted to ask you," Brandon starts slowly, once they’ve got all the usual social niceties out of the way. This is important to him, but he doesn't want to push Nick too hard on it either. "I'm not going home for Christmas this year, it's not— it's not a big deal, and I know we've got the extra day now, but I wondered if you wanted to, uh. Stop here on your way back from Minnesota?"

Nick makes a face that Brandon can't totally read; whether it's the low lighting or the video connection or maybe it's just. Well. Speculating doesn't get him anywhere, he reminds himself. He wants to point out that Nick would probably be connecting through Chicago anyway, but that just sounds embarrassingly desperate.

"I was maybe going to skip Christmas with the folks back home this year," Nick says. "I'm still getting settled here, you know? We were going to do something in the summer instead." He's looking down at his hands; Brandon can't see them that well, out of frame.

"Oh," Brandon says, his stomach sinking. He's not disappointed because he wasn't _counting_ on this, he's not.

"But Chicago's a pretty quick return flight from here," Nick says a beat later, looking up to meet Brandon's eyes, and that sends a hot rush right through him. "So, uh. Yeah, if you feel like playing airport taxi again... that sounds good to me."

"Awesome," Brandon says, just grinning at him. That's something else to look forward to, for sure.

* * *

They get a solid win in Boston, a too-close one in New Jersey, and by the time they get to Long Island the Hawks are riding an eight game win streak, and Brandon's not gonna lie, he feels pretty good about it.

Nick's not in quite the same mood; the Isles have slumped over their past couple, and while he's not obviously sulking or anything — too experienced to fall into that trap — Brandon can tell he's dwelling on it a little. He's quiet; not the same quiet he is around most people, because Brandon's not most people and hasn't been for a couple years, but. Reserved, maybe.

Brandon doesn't think it's just because he's there and they're boyfriends, or whatever. They haven't talked about it specifically because it feels too close to being team business, but he gets the sense that the responsibility of being a veteran, one of the guys who's been there before and knows what he's doing... he can see that's weighing on Nick a bit. Not in a bad way, necessarily, nothing he can't handle, even if he is more the quiet steady influence in the room than the center of attention, but... he's a better leader than he might realize, Brandon thinks.

"Hey," he says, and elbows Nick in the side, taking a quiet, well-hidden moment of happiness in the very back of his mind that he can actually do that right now, even if he has to keep it looking normal and friendly. "Focus. What'd you say was good here again?"

"Oh I'm sorry," Nick says, and leans into him for a moment, solid and warm and right there. "Were we not paying enough attention to you?"

"Saader just gets cranky when we don't feed him quick enough," Shawzy says, kicking Nick under the table and catching Brandon with some clearly accidentally-on-purpose friendly fire as well. "You forget that already?"

"I thought that was all of you," Nick says, blandly, but with that tiny hint of a smirk just around the corner of his mouth that makes Brandon want to kick him and crawl into his lap in about equal measures. He can only do one of those with a bunch of his teammates there with them for lunch, though, and he's not on the right angle for that at all. He tries anyway, but all he ends up managing to do is to hook his ankle around Nick's. It's nice to get to touch him even a little right now, but it's going to be kind of embarrassing if Andy tries to kick either of them again, let alone if anyone decides to regress to their junior hockey days and tries to shoe-check anyone. Brandon fervently, really hopes they've all got over that, for so many reasons.

Their waitress turns up then, and doesn't even blink at the remarkable amount of food they manage to order. She just calmly eyeballs Shawzy until he stops interrupting Bicks, and looks slightly abashed. That alone has Brandon mentally doubling their tip, because almost no one manages to shut Shawzy up that efficiently.

She's back with drinks quickly, and Brandon says thank you, automatically sliding Nick's across to him, even though he could've reached over to pick it up himself. He catches himself a second too late, grins at Nick again, helplessly, but when he looks back across the table he doesn't think anyone has noticed anything unusual. Bicks and Shawzy are still debating who's ahead in some dumb competition they've been having in increasingly outraged tones, and Smitty's playing with his straw, totally zoned out.

"That been going on for the whole roadie?" Nick asks, jerking his chin towards Shawzy and Bicks. Bicks at least looks a little abashed, but Shaw's bounced right back to totally shameless already. Sometimes Brandon suspects he's literally unsquashable, which would also explain some things about how he acts on the ice.

"You have no idea," Brandon says, playing it up with a sigh and an eye roll.

"Johnny threatened to separate them on the plane if they didn't behave," Smitty lies, with a perfect poker face, and Andy makes an outraged noise before they all crack up.

"Yeah, I didn't miss you guys at all," Nick says, gaze tracking around the table. "No one here does that—"

"That's not what I heard," Bicks interrupts, grinning, and just like that, they're all off again, a five-part conversation that's half nostalgia, half stirring shit, interrupting each other at will, and probably the only thing that's keeping them from flicking sugar packets at each other is that this place is about a hundred times nicer than anywhere they'd ever gone out to eat in Rockford.

It's comfortable and familiar, though, and Brandon finds himself relaxing back, everything and everyone right where they used to be.

"—and you still suck at Call of Duty, so— oh, thanks," Smitty says firmly, interrupting himself mid-sentence when their plates arrive. They're all pretty casual about stealing off each other's plates, partly because they know who hates pickle spears and who isn't going to guard their fries with a fork.

"You can't tell me it wouldn't be the most embarrassing 'upper body injury' ever if you did stab someone over lunch, though," Nick says to Andy, very reasonably.

Andy snickers, and this time it's Smitty who elbows him. "He's right," Brandon says, before anyone else can jump in. "Like, the only more embarrassing thing is if you break your dick, and that's still lower body."

"I don't know why anyone thinks you're so sweet and innocent," Shawzy complains. "Don't make me think about your dick when I'm eating, man."

Nick chokes on a mouthful of his steak and Brandon looks back at him in a hurry, concerned. Nick waves his hand in a 'I'm fine' gesture, and takes a long drink of his water.

“You okay?" Brandon asks quietly, while Bicks is looking skyward and asking why he hangs out with any of them.

"Fine, really, just. You know," Nick says, still a little pink around the cheeks. He's breathing normally again, at least, but Brandon makes a mental note to not actually make any more vaguely dirty jokes while they're eating. He really doesn't want to have to explain why either of them is suddenly reacting differently.

The rest of lunch is more or less uneventful; they eat, argue over the bill — Nick gets stuck with it, but Brandon's fairly certain he was expecting that, this is not any of their first rodeos — and then retrieve their coats, milling about in the entryway and eying the light snow that's started falling again.

"I am so ready for my nap," Bicks announces, and cuffs Shawzy upside the head. "C'mon, guys, we should get a cab."

“Uh," Nick and Brandon both start to say, and damn, they should have coordinated this better. Or at least come up with a more convincing cover story to ditch the others, Brandon starts to think, because now they're actually in the moment he's a little afraid the others will also want to go hang out at Nick's apartment for a while. He likes Bicks and Shawzy and Smitty a lot, he does, but he's also beyond ready for some alone time.

"I think I'm gonna go play some NHL 15 at Leds'?" Brandon says, as Nick's clearly biting his tongue and waiting for him to take the lead. "I'll catch up with you guys at the hotel later, just figure I should school him some at video games before we do the same in real life tomorrow."

It's the closest they've gotten to actually mentioning that; Brandon was expecting more chirping, to be honest, but apparently they've all decided to be sensitive and not the assholes they are normally today.

He crosses his fingers behind his back, and waits for someone to say something.

"That's cool," Bicks says.

And, "Bro time," Shawzy says, just nodding, and he's the one that Brandon was most expecting to protest or invite himself along, so this is a pleasant surprise. "I get how it is. You guys go do your thing."

"Later, Saader; Ledpipe," is all Ben says. Brandon looks at him a little harder; he doesn't think he's giving anything away, but Smitty just gives him a bland smile back, and trails after Bicks and Shaw, tugging his knit cap down more firmly over his ears.

Brandon and Nick exchange a glance, and Nick shrugs.

"Come on, my car's this way," he says, and Brandon shoves his hands in his coat pockets — he really should've grabbed gloves just in case — and follows.

* * *

Nick's place isn't very far away, and their conversation in the car is almost as inconsequential as it was over lunch, even though they don't have an audience at all now. Brandon's still overly conscious of being in public, though, and he thinks maybe Nick is too.

It's just long enough of a drive for Brandon to go back to worrying again that this is going to be weird now they're hanging out in person, like spending half a day in bed and then having a truly remarkable amount of phone sex isn't going to translate now they're face-to-face again.

He's not entirely wrong, either, because they kick off their shoes and hang up their coats once they get inside the apartment, and then it's like Brandon couldn't put a sentence together if someone paid him. Nick gives him the ten cent tour — it's a pretty basic apartment, nice but under-furnished; two bedrooms, a kitchen and living room, and mostly all Nick's got in there is an incredibly ugly couch that looks really comfortable, and a huge TV. There is at least a PS4, so probably if Shawzy had tagged along it wouldn't have been a complete lie.

Nick offers him a glass of water when they're in the kitchen, and Brandon takes it just to have something to do with his hands. He turns the glass around a few times, both palms cupped around it, and drinks half of it, before setting it down on the table behind him. This is kind of dumb, and they don't have _time_ to be weird about it.

"Hey," Brandon says again, and oh, Nick is a lot closer now than he had been a moment ago.

"Hi," Nick echoes. "Uh, I really want to kiss you, if that's okay?"

"Yes," Brandon says, and it only takes a half-step forward for him to be pressed right up against Nick. He is definitely on board with the kissing idea, sooner rather than later, but he also has to take a second first to wrap his arms around him and hug him the way he'd wanted to when they met at the restaurant earlier; tight and close and almost desperate, making himself breathe in deep and slow, head tucked into the side of Nick's collar.

He pulls back a little almost immediately, only far enough to line their faces up, closing his eyes as they kiss. It's a little different now they're both sporting full beards, which is actually going to make this easier to remember, he thinks; different to the first time. Nick's mouth is still soft and warm against his, and it's just so good.

"Hi," Nick says again, a fraction of an inch away, so Brandon can feel him talking just as much as he can hear it. Brandon opens his eyes long enough to grin back at him, and then he has to lean back in for another kiss, shifting his hands so he's got a better grip on him.

Nick's hands are firm on his back, palms spread across his shoulder blades, and abruptly that's not nearly enough; Brandon wants skin on skin, wants Nick's weight on him, and he has to duck his head, breathing fast before he can ask, "Can we, uh, take this to your room?"

Nick's hand slides down his back — and even over a couple layers of clothing that feels good, makes Brandon shiver — and settles at his hip.

"Yeah," he says, and then he's pulling back just enough, turning Brandon around to point him at the hall leading to the bedroom.

Brandon starts stripping the moment he's through the doorway, and Nick's clearly on the same wavelength because by the time he's down to his underwear and turns around, Nick's dumping his own shirt and trousers in an untidy pile on top of a dresser, the dark briefs he's still wearing clinging to every line of muscle and making Brandon's mouth go dry.

Nick turns back to face him then, and Brandon grins to himself as it very obviously takes him a second or ten before he looks up to meet Brandon's eyes.

"That jacket from your suit for tomorrow?" Nick asks, which is almost ordinary enough to put Brandon entirely off balance.

"Yes?" Brandon says, not following. They're only away for a couple games, he only packed one suit, figured he'd be fine. He wore jeans to lunch, anyway.

Nick turns away to the open wardrobe, digs out a hanger and hands it to him.

"You planning on ironing it when you get back to your hotel room tonight?" he asks, and it's a good point; if he leaves his jacket on the floor it'll probably crease, and he's definitely in no hurry to explain that to Dahlbeck. He's a pretty laid-back dude normally, but he's a little tense about finally playing in the show and Brandon doesn't want to wind up having to explain anything.

"Right, yeah, thanks," Brandon says, and crouches down to pick up his jacket and, after a brief moment of thought, his shirt; stands up and slots them both onto the hanger. His jeans will be fine, he figures, and kicks them closer to the wall. Nick takes the hanger from him, hooks it onto the rail in the wardrobe — that gives Brandon a feeling he's not sure he wants to examine too closely — and then turns back to him.

"So, uh," Nick says, hands dropping to his waist, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs, looking at Brandon like he's waiting for an invitation to either stop or go.

"Let me?" Brandon interrupts him, stepping forward, and covering Nick's hands with his own.

"I'd ask if you were still into this," Nick says, huffing out a faint laugh, leaning into Brandon, and he's so warm, Brandon had forgotten that. "But, uh, I think that's pretty clear."

That's one way to put it, Brandon thinks, because they're close enough that he can feel Nick hard against him, and even if Nick hadn't been clearly checking Brandon out a minute ago, he must be able to feel the same.

"So into it," Brandon assures him, and, well, Nick's mouth is right there and it's been whole minutes since they were making out in the kitchen, so that just means he has to kiss him again, and that occupies them both very nicely for a while longer, until Brandon remembers he actually had a plan here, and tugs Nick's briefs down over his hips.

He's not quite as careful as he could be, and Nick makes a low sound, a little pained, a lot turned on, and presses harder into Brandon, hips shifting as he instinctively tries to get a little more friction.

Nick steps out of his underwear and nudges Brandon back towards the bed, his own hands yanking at Brandon's, and between the two of them, they manage to get the rest of the way naked, and onto the bed. No one gets elbowed anywhere unfortunate, although Nick's knee skids on the top sheet as they're arranging themselves, and comes closer than Brandon is totally comfortable with to his balls.

"Oops," Nick says, and snickers, so Brandon punches him in the thigh and then grabs him again anyway, one hand curling around the back of his neck and the other settling on the curve of his ass, arranging him exactly to Brandon's satisfaction.

"Yeah, this works," Nick mumbles, and then gets right back to kissing him, which was pretty much what Brandon had been going for there.

Brandon's not sure how long they go on like that; it's so easy to get lost in the slide of skin on skin, Nick solid and warm against him, rocking down in subtle, simple shifts. They rub off against each other until he has to wrench his mouth away from Nick's to just breathe in, shaky with arousal, and a lot closer to coming than he thinks he should be.

Nick braces himself on his elbows, giving Brandon some space.

"Okay?" He asks.

Brandon nods, and then manages to get himself together enough to speak.

"Yeah, just. This is gonna be over fast if you keep doing that."

"Oh," Nick says, and lets his weight settle back on top of Brandon. "That's fine, we've got time to go again, right?" and Brandon gives up entirely on trying to play this cool and says, "Okay, yeah," and then, " _Fuck_ ," as Nick shifts on top of him again, deliberately.

"Hey, let me just— like this," Nick says, his own words coming out too fast and choppy, and it makes Brandon go hot all over to hear how this is affecting him, too. He gets Brandon to shift around under him, nudging his thighs further apart, getting a hand on his knee to push up, and after a few seconds Brandon figures out what he aiming for, hooks his heel behind Nick's calf and tilts his hips up, and that's— that's really fucking good.

Nick ducks his head then to nuzzle into the side of Brandon's throat, dragging his mouth along the line of his collarbone, the prickle-scratch-drag of his beard against Brandon's skin making him shudder appreciatively.

"I'm gonna— fuck, Leds, don't stop," Brandon manages to get out, fingers digging hard into Nick's biceps as he strains up against him, and Nick just rocks down against him some more until Brandon's choking back a moan, back arching up as he comes.

He slumps back into the bed after that, shaky and satisfied, feeling like half his muscles have turned to jelly. Nick's still hard against him, which seems kind of unfair to Brandon; Nick's been doing all the work, he deserves to get off already, too.

Brandon runs his fingertips down Nick's back, tracing the bumps along his spine, getting a good handful of his ass when he gets there, and Nick makes an approving noise and shifts on top of him again.

"Still okay?" Nick manages to ask, and Brandon says "huh?" kind of stupidly, and then, "Oh, yeah, you can— keep doing that," because Nick's still rubbing off on him, the head of his dick dragging over Brandon's abs, and Brandon is going to jerk off to this memory so, so much later. Nick's somehow managed to line them up so he's hardly touching Brandon's dick now that it's soft and extra-sensitive, which Brandon mostly appreciates, except for how watching Nick get himself closer and closer is making him wish he could get off again this fast.

Brandon's probably giving himself neck strain staring down between them, but god, this is so hot, the tiny glimpses he gets as their bodies shift, as Nick moves on top of him, against him.

"Hey, come here, Nick, please," he says a minute or two later, he can see Nick's close, his arms shaking as he tries to keep holding himself up.

Nick looks up to meet his gaze, eyes dark and pupils gone huge, and says, "What?" and then when Brandon gets a hand up onto his face, thumb dragging over his cheek, fingers stroking behind his ear, he adds, "Oh, yeah," and sinks willingly right back into a messy kiss. He catches Brandon's lip with his teeth until they line up a little better, and then it's just all wet heat, and Nick breathing too fast, and finally coming against Brandon with a tiny sigh.

Brandon kisses him through it, hands and mouth gentle until Nick relaxes and goes boneless on top of him. Maybe in a few minutes he'll shove him off, but even though he abruptly seems to weigh every one of the almost two hundred pounds his stats claim on top of Brandon, it's just— nice.

Brandon dozes off for a while; he's warm and relaxed and everything feels good, he's spent years training his body to take those things as cues to nap.

By the time he wakes up properly, Nick's rolled off him and is sprawled face-down on the bed beside him, head pillowed on his arms. Brandon stretches slowly, working through each muscle group from his toes all the way up to his shoulders and neck.

Nick grins over at him when Brandon takes one last deep breath and relaxes all over again.

"What?" Brandon asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Fun watching you do that," Nick says lazily.

Brandon shrugs, scratches idly at his belly, and then makes a face before wiping his hand off on the sheet. Nick's still just looking at him, eyes half-closed. Brandon kicks lightly at his ankle, letting the side of his heel knock into the bone, not bothering to move after so that that's the only place they're touching.

"So when do I get my free show, then?" Brandon asks, mostly teasing.

"Maybe later," Nick says, "and don't think I missed how you keep checking out my butt."

"There's just so much of it," Brandon protests automatically, laughing, even as Nick gives him a mock-glare and says, "Like you're one to talk."

"You wanna actually play video games?" Nick asks a little later. "I did want to, like. Hang out, as well as— you know."

"Mmm," Brandon says, considering. "Shower and then Mario Kart?"

"Sounds good," Nick agrees. "The Wii's... somewhere in a box in the living room."

Brandon sits up, shuffles off the bed and turns to face Nick. "Can I borrow sweats or something?" he asks.

"Oh, sure," Nick says, following him eventually, and digging through the dresser. He tosses Brandon a pair of sweatpants, then pulls open a second drawer, pausing for a moment before digging right to the bottom, balling up a t-shirt and throwing it to Brandon as well.

"Bathroom's this way," Nick says, leading the way, and Brandon looks down at the clothes in his hands.

The shirt's faded, worn thin and soft. And red, with a familiar logo.

Brandon swallows hard and follows Nick into the shower.

* * *

Brandon mostly keeps his hands to himself in the shower, although it is a pleasant change to have enough space to comfortably fit two hockey players in a shower that's not attached to a locker room and filled with all their teammates. He wonders if Nick picked the apartment with that in mind, but probably the team helped set him up here and it's just a pleasant convenience.

Nick does grab his ass some when they're drying off after, but realistically they both know that's not going anywhere any time soon.

It still feels good, though, which Brandon mumbles against Nick's mouth when he pulls him into a kiss, standing dripping on the tiles. Brandon's hands slip over Nick's skin, slippery where he didn't manage to finish drying himself, dragging the blunt edges of his nails lightly down his sides, up and over his chest, circling in around his navel and dragging down through the line of thicker, darker hair below.

Nick makes a noise against him and pulls back then, which makes Brandon's hands freeze in turn.

"Later, yeah?" he says, and he's right; despite Brandon's best intentions this was starting to go in a more serious direction again.

"Yeah," Brandon agrees, hands settling demurely back on Nick's waist. He leans in for one more kiss quickly first, though. "Uh, actually... I could eat again soon? If that works for you."

"Of course you could," Nick says, trying to sound long-suffering, but after they pull on clothes and settle in the living room again, he's just as quick to go for the food they order when it arrives as Brandon is.

Nick cleans his plate first and gets up to dump his trash back in the kitchen, just waving at Brandon to stay where he is. He pulls open a couple of the boxes still stacked against the wall, moving two of them before he finds the one with the console in it, and then spends another five minutes hooking everything up.

By that point, Brandon's finished eating as well, so he settles back into the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table, indulging himself in watching Nick bend to fuss with the cords. He does his best to hide his amusement as Nick has to go back into the first box to find the controllers, making a tiny frustrated noise that Brandon's mostly only heard before in... other contexts.

Nick loads up the game and then tosses a Wii-mote and joystick to Brandon, dropping heavily onto the couch beside him.

They only make it through half of one race before Brandon's joystick quits working, which he immediately accuses Nick of setting up to cheat, but Nick doesn't bite on that, just ruthlessly elbows him in the ribs before hitting pause and getting up to dig in another box again for spare batteries.

"I'm not sure whether to chirp you for being over-prepared or for being totally disorganized still," Brandon says after a moment, looking down as he trades out the batteries.

"At least we didn't have to steal them from the remote this time," Nick points out, and considering how often that had happened in Rockford, Brandon has to allow the point.

Brandon pulls off a come-from-behind victory in their second race with the help of some strategically deployed blue shells, but Nick gets so far ahead of him in the third that Brandon is still hopelessly behind even when he hits every speed-up boost dead on. It's clear with half a lap to go that he's not going to catch him at all, so Brandon gives up on doing anything else bar trying to sabotage Nick in the hopes that at least the computer will beat him. He doesn't manage it, but by the time the final placings screen flashes up on the TV neither of them is paying much attention.

The momentary distraction as Nick drops his controller to do an incredibly dorky celly as his kart crosses the finish line is all Brandon needs to scramble over and climb on top of him, crawling into his lap, hands on Nick's shoulders for balance.

Nick stops laughing almost immediately, gaze locking on to Brandon's mouth. Brandon swallows hard, momentarily hopes he doesn't, like, have any food stuck in his teeth or anything, and then decides the hell with it and kisses him again anyhow. Nick makes an approving noise in the back of his throat, hands gripping Brandon's thighs and holding him in place.

Brandon squirms a little; Nick's hands feel great on him, thumbs running along the inseam of his sweats, back and forth, within flirting distance of his dick, which is getting more and more interested in current events. He can feel that Nick's getting hard again under him, too, and that makes him rock forward, trying to shift his weight to where they both want it.

Their kissing gets dirtier, harder then; Brandon's teeth catch on Nick's lower lip for a second and that's definitely working for him, too. He tries that a second time, more deliberately, and Nick practically growls at him, hands tightening convulsively on his quads.

"Fuck, Leds, _fuck_ ," Brandon manages to say, and he's suddenly not sure he even wants to wait long enough to get back to Nick's bedroom.

Nick's on his wavelength, it seems, because he goes carefully still under Brandon, taking a deep breath before trying to speak.

"We could— like this," he suggests, leaning forward, hands sliding under Brandon's thighs, tilting him back and to the side, and Brandon gets with the program and scrambles to his feet instead, knocks the backs of his calves against the coffee table, but it doesn't matter, because Nick's rolled sideways on the couch so he's lying length-ways on it, and Brandon braces himself with a hand on the back of the couch before settling right back on top of him.

He kisses down the side of Nick's jawline, working his way down to the loose collar of his shirt, enjoying the way Nick goes tense and eager, the way his skin goes pink where Brandon rubs his face against it, even as he knows that hell be picking up some serious beard burn himself when Nick is able to return the favor.

It's too much trouble to get Nick's shirt all the way off, but he grabs at the hem anyway, shoving it up so that it gets caught under his arms, baring his stomach and most of his chest, and Nick arches up under him when he grabs at the waistband of his sweats, helping him yank them down over his thighs, too.

Brandon watched Nick get dressed, so it's no surprise that he's not wearing anything underneath them, but it's still gratifying to watch. They get Nick's sweats most of the way towards his knees, and Brandon's about to sit up and deal with his own when Nick squirms under him, and then yelps, sitting up so fast that he and Brandon nearly knock heads, and shit would that be embarrassing to have to explain.

"What?" Brandon asks, stumbling off him automatically, winding up on his heels at the far end of the couch. "You okay, Leds?"

Nick makes a disgusted face and reaches behind himself. "Fucking Wii-mote, right in the kidney," he complains, dumping it on the floor by the coffee table. Brandon tries not to, he really does, but he can't help cracking up, because fuck, of course this would happen to them. And Nick's face was so—

"Hey, it got to third base with me before you did," Nick points out, still sounding salty, but with enough of a grin by that point that Brandon doesn't feel bad at all for laughing even harder, practically giggling.

"Okay," Nick says, the corner of his mouth twitching a little with restrained laughter too, "right, now that's dealt with, you wanna get back over here, Saader?"

"Oh yeah," Brandon says, and then, biting his lip until he can get himself under control again, adds, "Uh, can you turn the TV off first? I feel weird about blowing you with that music still going."

This time it's Nick's turn to crack up, but he reaches back for the remote and manages to hit the power button in record time, and the TV screen's barely gone black before Brandon's got both hands and then his mouth on him.

Nick's low moans are a much more fun soundtrack, anyway.

* * *

The rest of the evening seems to pass in no time at all, and Brandon finds himself more tempted than he'd like to just curl up and ignore the fact it's almost late enough that he needs to head back to the hotel if he doesn't want to deal with a whole lot of questions and trouble.

He doesn't let himself indulge that at all, though; kisses Nick again and then gets up, grabbing his jeans from the bedroom floor, and then he does have to stop and recalculate, because, "Uh, this is embarrassing," Brandon starts.

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Saader?"

"You remember how I had underwear when we got here?"

Nick gives him a borderline sleazy grin, which— wow, that was not a look Brandon's seen on him before, and he's kind of into it, and — this is not the time for that, he reminds himself, focus.

"You wanna help me look, then?" Brandon asks, and he knows his tone's harsher than he meant it to be, he's tense and overcompensating, so before Nick manages to get to his feet he leans in for one more fast kiss. "Sorry, I just."

"It's okay," Nick says softly, looking and sounding a lot more like normal, like he's coming back down to earth fast too.

Nick strips the bed quickly and efficiently, shaking the sheets out before bundling them into a laundry hamper, and turning up three socks — which Brandon would've missed eventually, but less obviously at least — and not much else.

Brandon stands in the middle of the room and looks around carefully, cataloging half-unpacked boxes and a pile of books and other bits and pieces that have collected on top of the dresser and by the mirror. He thinks back to a couple of hours ago and then ducks down beside the end of the bed, fishes around underneath the mattress base and can't bite back a tiny, triumphant, "Ha!" as his fingers close on fabric which does indeed turn out to be his briefs

"Oops," Nick says, not sounding particularly sincere, but he does step back into his wardrobe to start grabbing fresh clothes for himself, and the hanger with Brandon's shirt and jacket. He waits, watching as Brandon strips out of the clothes he'd lent him and puts his own back on again, and hands him first his shirt and then — once Brandon's dealt with all the buttons — his jacket.

"I can get a cab, I guess?" Brandon offers slowly, because he's not sure how much he should impose on Nick right now, but he just shakes his head and says, "Nah, I can run you back."

It's awkward again, now, and Brandon doesn't know how to fix that. Nick's still in the sweats he'd pulled back on after they'd cleaned themselves up in the living room, and he snags an Islanders hoodie out of the closet to tug on over the plain t-shirt he'd been wearing, and somehow that makes Brandon feel weird again, and slightly worse.

He's seen Nick in Islanders gear before, of course, kind of a lot. Half the time when they've Skyped each other, when he's watched his games, looking at stuff on the internet. It's not a new look, but when it's right in front of his eyes and he knows that tomorrow they'll be looking at each other like this on the ice— it's possible he's less okay with all of this than he'd let himself believe. Or maybe he's just tired. It's been a long week.

"Hey, c'mon," Nick says, interrupting his thought. "We should go, yeah?" He wraps a hand around Brandon's wrist, tugging him in the direction of the door.

"Yeah, just a minute," Brandon says, pausing in front of the mirror. Nick would tell him if something was obviously awry but he just wants to check. He looks basically the same as when they'd been at the restaurant, he thinks, turning slowly, just slightly over-warm, maybe, faintly pink in the cheeks above his beard, and — as he turns his head to look over at Nick one more time — oh, yeah, he has a bruise coming up right next to his Adam's apple. It's not obviously a hickey, he thinks, so he probably doesn't have to worry, but he still finds himself rubbing his thumb and forefinger over it, bites his lip.

"What?" Nick asks, and then when his gaze focuses on Brandon's hand, he adds a quieter, "Oh."

Brandon looks at him in the mirror, only then noticing that he'd been less careful than Nick must've been, although the v-neck also covers a lot less than Brandon's button-down, because that is some really obvious beard burn on the side of his neck.

"Uh, I kind of— sorry," Brandon says guiltily, still staring at their reflections, and Nick just shrugs, the corner of his mouth crooking up.

"It's fine, it won't be as bad tomorrow."

Brandon wants to ask how he knows that, even if it's not strictly any of his business who Nick's done any of this with before, or when, but he does know this isn't the time for that conversation, no matter what, so he just manages a low, "Okay, cool," and heads towards the hallway.

Nick follows him, and they're both quiet as they get ready to leave; Brandon checking he has his phone and wallet, that he didn't have anything else with him, and Nick grabbing keys and a couple bottles of water from the fridge.

He hands one to Brandon as they leave the apartment and head to the garage level, and Brandon cracks it open and drinks half before they even get into the car. Okay, so maybe he needed that more than he'd realized.

They drift back onto more usual conversational ground in the car, just like nothing had ever changed except how they haven't seen each other in a while, and it's unsettling and comforting in about equal parts. Brandon thinks that's going to be how they leave this — maybe they're just better at communicating over text now, or something? Fuck. But when they get to the hotel Nick pulls into a corner of the car park, one where they can't really be seen by anyone inside or anyone who's not right next to the car, and turns in the driver's seat to face Brandon.

Brandon swallows hard, and straightens up in the seat. He's— he really doesn't know what to expect right now.

"I'll see you at Christmas, yeah?" Nick says softly, and Brandon relaxes fast; that was what he'd been hoping for.

"Yeah," he says, and then, compelled to be honest. "This got weird, again, didn't it?"

Nick shrugs, frowns. "A little? It'll be better after tomorrow, I guess."

Brandon hopes so, too. "Yeah," he says, because it'll be easier after tomorrow if nothing else.

"I really want to kiss you again now," Nick says after a moment, and Brandon wants that too, wishes he could, but they're still somewhere that anyone could see, and it's too risky.

"Me too," he says, and unbuckles his seatbelt, leaning across the center console to wrap his arms around Nick in an awkward but at least arguably platonic-looking hug. "It was good to see you," he says quietly, right beside Nick's ear, and okay, if his lips maybe brush the side of Nick's cheek before he pulls back, well, probably no one would've been able to notice that, even if they were looking.

He opens the car door, steps out — winces a little because the temperature has dropped again — and then ducks back down to get his face on a level with Nick's.

"Thank you," he says again. "I'm really glad we did this."

That's about as much as he can say right now, and Nick just nods, keeps looking right at him and says, "Yeah, me too. See you later, Brandon."

"Night," Brandon says, and then closes the door behind himself as he heads for the lobby. They'll talk more later, he knows that. It's going to be fine. And they've got two days over Christmas, which is only about three weeks away, too. He can manage to go without seeing Nick for that long, especially when it's already been a couple of months before today.

He will, of course, also see Nick tomorrow night. But he knows they're not going to be this out on the ice; they won't be anything more than ex-teammates and friends. He's faced off against friends before, it'll almost definitely be fine, and even if it's not— he's a professional. He's going to play just as hard tomorrow as ever.

Or, he thinks, hitting the button for his floor in the elevator — he's going to be working even harder. They didn't talk about the game at all, it seemed safer not to, but. Brandon wants to go home with two points and an increasing win streak, just like always. So maybe he won't have trouble focusing after all.

* * *

Dahls had been reassuringly uninterested in Brandon's day when he'd got back to their room the night before, and both of them are moving slowly that morning. Brandon lets him have the bathroom first, although that's less generosity than it is being able to spend an extra ten minutes in bed.

They're downstairs in plenty of time for breakfast anyway, so it really is like any other morning. Walking over for morning skate is something of a novelty, it's maybe only the second time Brandon's been to Nassau, he thinks.

Morning skate is also pretty much the same as it always is; Brandon warms up, stretches, does what the coaches tell them to do, bumps Shawzy into the boards a couple times when he's being a pain in the ass and ignores Sharpy and Steeger's rendition of some top 40 pop song, because it is way too early in the morning for anyone to be subjected to that.

He's toweling his hair dry after escaping the showers — Steeger was working on his second chorus and Sharpy was working on getting at least the BHTV guys to try and film it, so Brandon had beaten a quick retreat — when Smitty sits down on the bench beside him and knocks their shoulders together.

"Hey," he says, and Brandon looks over at him.

"Hi. What's up, Benny?"

"You all good for tonight?" he asks, and Brandon just blinks at him for a second, dropping the towel beside him.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" It's early enough in the season he doesn't really have any twinges or anything he needs to just play through, though he does rap his knuckles quickly on the wooden board behind him at that thought.

"It was good to see Leds yesterday, right?" Smitty says. "You know he's gonna hear it from Shawzy tonight."

"Uh, yeah," Brandon says, really not sure how this is relevant and trying not to look like he's worried about it.

"Catch you later," Smitty says, and gives him a friendly shoulder punch before wandering back to his own stall.

That was weird, Brandon thinks to himself, and then turns his attention back to finishing up getting dressed.

* * *

Brandon has a moment to be viciously glad he's won the puck battle; forcing a turnover right at the blueline and then he gets a beautiful break right in on Halak, even with Leddy at his heels, trying to stick-check him. He can just hear the mutter of "ah fuck" that he lets out, probably wasn't even aware of, and maybe it's bad that he wants nothing more than to manage to score with Leds on the ice, like it'll be more satisfying, and okay, if he'd got to the NHL without knowing he's competitive then he'd have to be even less self-aware than the average stereotypical hockey player. Brandon would rather know himself, thanks.

Those thoughts take less than half a stride to form, mostly because they're an acknowledgment of something Brandon had already known rather than any kind of dawning realization. And they're washed away fast in a flood of adrenaline and frustration, because Brandon doesn't have quite as much time and space as he'd prefer — Leddy's good, he's so fucking good, Brandon will be proud of him later when it's not pissing him off — and he can't do anything with the chance; Leddy's backcheck and Halak's positioning both too good. It's frustrating then and it's more frustrating later, when they give up a late goal and can't get it back, even after they pull Darls. Not even a point from overtime, just a straight up regulation loss, and goodbye to that nice streak they'd been putting together.

"Fuck," Brandon thinks on the bench, and says in the visitors locker room afterward, letting himself get it out of his system. "Godfuckingdammit."

* * *

There's no time to dwell on a one-goal loss, however frustrating, because they have to turn right around and head home for the second half of the back-to-back. The Flames are the first on the board this time, but at least it doesn’t take that long for Sharpy to tie it up, and it’s always satisfying to actually get one on the power-play after some of the streaks they’ve had where that’s emphatically not happening.

They say it to reporters often enough but that doesn't make it any less true: the best way to respond to breaking their streak is to just start another one. The one goal differential being in their favor that night sure helps, and Brandon figures picking up the game-winner in the third is some consolation after not being able to get _anything_ past Halak, too.

Brandon's even more tired by the time he lets himself fall into bed after the game; travel and two hard games is a hell of a combination, and he's grateful Q's giving them the day off, that they don't have to be back at the UC till Tuesday. All of that and seeing Morin traded that morning as well, with not even enough time to say goodbye to them all — that’s never easy, even when they’d had a feeling this was coming. Even with Mo getting scratched game after game. At least he’s going to get a bit more ice time with the Jackets, Brandon figures. He’d sent him a few messages before the game, congratulations and condolences, the same thing he’d send any of his friends or teammates, but the last he’d checked Mo hadn’t replied. With a vivid memory of the hours immediately after Nick’s trade, Brandon figures his phone’s probably blowing up with friends and relatives plus all the organizational stuff from his agent and new team; it’s not like he’s really expecting to get a response. If he has, though, it’s almost certainly going to have to wait for tomorrow because Brandon’s about to drop.

He’s tired enough that he’d actually left his car at the UC and got a ride back with Richie instead, there’s enough construction fucking up Madison at the moment that it seemed smarter avoid the combination of that and traffic with exhaustion dragging at the back of his mind. He's mentally penciled in at least two naps for tomorrow. Plus a quiet dinner at home. He can watch whatever's on TV and get an early night. It’s never too early in the season for that.

He checks his phone one last time before hitting the lights; it was an ingrained reflex before this year, but considering how often it's his only way to talk to Nick at the moment, well. He's a bit compulsive about it now.

"Nice goal, first star," Nick's message says, and then in a second text bubble below that, timestamped ten minutes later, "watched the replay a few times. good hands. :)"

Brandon's face feels hot, because— fuck, he's blushing over the world's lamest double entendre. He's got it bad.

"Your lines need SO much more work," he sends back, even though Nick has to be out for the count by now. "but thanks."

He flips the lights off then and stretches out, but even though he knows more screen time before bed is a bad idea, has to pick up his phone again to send one more message.

"Did you seriously jerk off to my wrist shot?"

Brandon has to delete his sent messages first thing the next morning, just in case, but he's pretty sure the fact that Nick doesn't actually reply means that was a yes. That's... hotter than he might've guessed, actually.

* * *

Three games in four days is always a struggle, not that Brandon or anyone else is going to actually give that as an excuse for giving up a two goal lead over the Wild. It’s some small mercy that they manage to pull the game-winner back on the power-play, and Smitty gets the empty netter to cap it off, but that had wound up closer than any of them would have liked. The cameras pick up Q’s comments in the room between the second and the third, although the language is blue enough that Brandon isn’t sure if they’ll actually be able to air any of it. That might be to their benefit, really, because after looking great for the first half of the month, the wheels have come off a bit, even if they are still scraping wins. Most of the time.

Either way, Brandon’s looking forward to the break, even if it’s only a couple of days off.

A fluke of the schedule means they’ve actually got three days off right after that, and with a wary eye on the calendar Brandon decides that he should probably brave the stores for the gifts he’s not ordering online. He’s ordered a few parcels to be sent directly to his folks in Pittsburgh, but feels like he should pick up a few things in Chicago, too. Either he can hand-deliver next time he’s at home or he can wrap them and FedEx them himself. It just seems a bit more personal that way.

He finds presents his mom and dad will like without too much trouble, and George has always been easy to buy for; one of the benefits of the two of them being more alike than was good for them when they were younger.

He’s not sure, exactly, what he and Nick are doing; they’ve talked a few times but with one thing and another Brandon hasn’t remembered to bring up the gift thing. He leaves it till almost the last minute, but about an hour before he’s going to have to race out of his apartment to make the charter to Columbus on time he makes a decision and runs back to the store. He’s lucky — they weren’t close to selling out, and almost more importantly, there’s not so many people in there that it takes long at all to hand over his credit card, pick up the parcel and then race home again. He stows the box on the shelf in his living room and figures that, well, if he’s judged this wrong he can always return it later or something.

They’ve done gifts as friends before, anyway, and Brandon’s isn’t too far past what would be appropriate for that. Probably. Maybe.

Even with the mini-break, the Columbus game is a slog, like it feels like they always are. Brandon thinks that every time they’ve played the Jackets since he’s been up with the Hawks it’s been a one-goal game, and usually low-scoring. They’d at least usually won, but this time it’s the Jackets who come out on top; the Hawks falling flat in the shoot-out.

When Morin had gone over the boards to take a shot for the Jackets, Brandon had felt a vague stirring of nervousness; it’s not like Mo wasn’t going to be even more motivated than usual to score, and it felt almost inevitable when he did, the puck sliding past Rants and into the back of the net while the Jackets bench yelled approvingly.

Shawzy scoring next had at least kept them afloat a couple more rounds, as both Bobrovsky and Rants put on a show in what Brandon thinks might be the longest shoot-out they’ve had in a while. It had seemed somehow almost as inevitable when Brandon skated out to take his own shot, beat Bobrovsky, rang the puck right off the post — and out. Tazer had been doing his supportive captain bit by the time Brandon made it back to the bench, climbing over just in time to watch Jack fucking Johnson score and Bicks… not.

They’re out of Nationwide fast, though; one last back-to-back for the year; two more home games to go now and then they’ll be into the break. Brandon falls asleep on the plane, hopes no one spotted him doing anything embarrassing like drooling, and just-about sleepwalks back to his own bed after getting a ride home. The last thought he remembers having before falling asleep is that at least they won’t have morning skate.

* * *

Brandon’s slow to wake up the next morning; he gets up and out of his apartment on time, but he feels like he’s still only about a quarter functional by the time he gets to the UC. He walks in with Duncs, both of them silently communing with their hot drinks — his tea, Duncs with coffee — and by silent assent they both sidestep the cameras. Hammer’s right behind them, talking animatedly to Johnny in Swedish, and Brandon figures they can take the attention right then.

The team meeting wakes him up the rest of the way, and he feels fine by the time they’re going out on the ice to warm up, stretching all the kinks out of his back. Line rushes go just like always, and Brandon has to grin to himself when he loops along the boards just as Tazer skates down to the goal line to jump into Smitty like they’ve been doing for a couple weeks now. He steps over a puck that had bounced off Bicks’ skate and right into his path, and heads back over towards the bench. Krugs catches his eye then, and after a quick glance up at the scoreboard to check how much time they’ve got left, the two of them throw saucer passes back and forth for a minute.

The ice opens up as guys start heading back into the room, and Brandon makes sure, as always, to stay out there until the last second, keeping himself moving, and he’s one of the last off the ice, keeping his gaze right in front of him as he follows Hammer through the bench and back down the tunnel.

The Leafs come out hard and physical from the get-go, and Brandon gets crunched a couple times early in the period. He shakes it off okay, gets a few shots in himself, but the second line is the one that’s clicking, still, even with Richie out for the day and Sharpy cycling in.

After they’d lost in Toronto earlier in the season, it feels good to be ahead 2-0 after the first, and even better to pile on another two in the third. Getting Raanta the shutout is icing on the cake, and now there’s only one game left before the break, which means Brandon can actually let himself start thinking about his plans over Christmas.

Nick sends through his itinerary the next day, as if he’s expecting Brandon to have lost it the first time, when they planned this back at the beginning of the month. And, okay, he’s not entirely wrong, because Brandon was about to ask him which flight he was on, but he probably could’ve found the first email again if he’d actually spent some time looking. They go back and forth over WhatsApp for a while, and they keep distracting themselves with unrelated topics, which reaches its peak about the time Brandon gives up on even pretending to do anything other than just sending Nick increasingly ridiculous youtube links.

Nick sends him back a selfie, eyes crossed and doing something bizarre with his mouth in an exaggerated expression of horror, and Brandon laughs, promptly saves the picture, and then sends him one back where he’s making an even stupider looking face. That eats half the afternoon, and by the time Brandon has to tap out to go get dinner, his phone’s full of enough blackmail material to last a lifetime, and his stomach hurts from laughing.

He doesn’t feel much like laughing the day after; the Hawks’ first period is so miserable that even the fact that at least they don’t get shut out is small consolation. The second and third periods are at least better, getting back to playing their systems after the extended shit-show that was the first, but even though they put nearly forty shots on the other net, Hutchinson is seeing everything and getting virtually all of it. Brandon wants to slam his stick into the boards by the time he gets back after yet another shift where they just get nothing, and he’s not the only one.

The locker room is quiet and distinctly unfestive by the time they trickle back in after the final buzzer, no one saying much of anything. They start talking a bit more after the press come through for quotes, and Brandon’s starting to shake the game off by the time he’s dressed, listening to Duncs talk about how much last minute shopping he still has left.

“I’m done already,” Brandon offers, and then has to step smartly over behind Seabs as Duncs narrows his eyes and tells him what he can do with his pre-planning. Sometimes Duncs can be kind of scary, although Brandon still thinks Sharpy’s exaggerating how much weirder he used to be.

“I still think we should’ve dressed Saader up as Santa,” Shawzy pops up to say, in the middle of Seabs’ comment about last season’s Christmas party, and then he reaches over to try and tug illustratively on Brandon’s beard, at which point Brandon makes a full strategic retreat, yelling over his shoulder to tell everyone to have a good break.

At least he gets to stay in town instead of trying to deal with airports and stressed out people everywhere, not that it wouldn’t be worth it if that was the only way to see his family. Or anyone else important to him.

* * *

Nick's flight gets in so disgustingly early that he'd insisted on getting a cab, and Brandon had let him. They'd figured holiday-related traffic would make it even more miserable than usual, and, "It's not like I can't afford it," Nick had pointed out, and Brandon had given up without much of a fight. So he likes to sleep, whatever.

He'd figured that he'd wake up early anyway, maybe throw some breakfast together for when Nick arrived, but either they'd landed really early or Brandon had overslept, because he actually wakes up when he hears the thud of a bag being dropped onto the floor by the bed, and then the mattress creaks and shifts under Nick's weight as he crawls in under the blankets and curls up against Brandon.

"Hey," Brandon says softly. It feels too early to make more noise than that, even though he knows it has to be after seven at least.

"Hi," Nick says, "we had a tail wind."

"And you still have keys," Brandon finishes. He'd meant to ask about that, had assumed Nick had taken them with him, but the last time they'd spoken he'd gotten distracted and never gotten back to him to check.

"Yeah," Nick replies. "Uh, that's okay, right?"

Brandon wriggles closer, the blankets shifting with his movements, letting a little more of the cooler air of his bedroom in underneath as he wraps himself around Nick. "It's fine. You wanna nap or should I get up?" He feels slow, and still decidedly sleepy, knows he’s mumbling.

Nick snorts, then tilts his face up to press a quick, close-mouthed kiss to Brandon's lips, hello and sorry all at once. "We can nap."

 

"Awesome," Brandon says, and he's probably creasing Nick's shirt where he's clutching at it too tightly, not awake enough to put much more thought than that into holding him close. "Knew I liked you."

"So easy," Nick says softly, running a hand along Brandon's side, letting it slow and settle on his hip, tucking his thumb just under the waistband of Brandon's sweats, but he doesn't do anything more than that, just relaxes against Brandon and lets himself fall asleep again too.

  
* * *

Brandon wakes up pressed tight to Nick, face-down against his chest. Well, it's more like tucked under his arm, and considering some of the ways Brandon's woken up over the years — one memorable hangover involving Rossy's armpit, which, never again, jeez — that's really not bad at all. He's got one arm slung over Nick and the other tucked under himself and, okay, a little numb, oops. But after he shifts enough that he's not giving himself pins and needles any more he's still warm and comfortable enough that he can't bring himself to move just yet.

There's enough light sneaking around the edges of his curtains that he can crack one eye open for a look around the room. Nick's bag is tipped on its side against the wall by the door, and he's clearly left his shoes in the hall because Brandon can't see them.

Nick's completely dead to the world still, mouth open with the occasional faint snore, drooling a little onto Brandon's pillows. Brandon has to close his eyes then and take a slow, deep breath in, making a face at himself because he's so fucking into Nick that none of that registers as anything other than 'kind of cute'.

He shuffles around a little, trying to get a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand, and that's apparently enough to wake Nick up too. He shifts slightly, making an obvious effort not to dislodge Brandon, but giving himself a chance to stretch his legs out before he settles again, body inclined towards Brandon's.

"Hey," Nick says after a moment, voice a little scratchy, though Brandon can't tell if it's normal sleep roughness or maybe he's coming down with something. If he is, Brandon's already almost certainly going to catch it anyway, so he mentally shrugs and rolls with it.

"Hi," Brandon says, smoothing his hand over Nick's side; he can feel the warmth of his skin even through the cotton shirt. It's comfortingly familiar. "How are you feeling?"

"Much more—" Nick interrupts himself with a yawn and smothers a laugh, "—more awake now. You?"

Brandon grins up at him. "I'm good. Wondering why you're wearing a shirt still," and he tugs the fabric between thumb and forefinger in illustration.

"One track mind much?" Nick asks, like he doesn't have his thigh pressed up against Brandon's lower body, and like his hand isn't anchored on Brandon's hip, fingertips slowly stroking back and forth.

"It's nice waking up with you," Brandon says, maybe a little too honestly, and maybe he'd worry about how fast they're moving, but it hasn't felt anything other than right yet. And Brandon tends to trust his instincts.

"Yeah," Nick says, and then tightens his grip on Brandon's side before saying, "Come up here?"

Brandon goes easily enough, closes his eyes and fits his mouth against Nick's in a good-morning kiss, just breathing against him for a long moment before leaning back in again. His mouth is a little sour from sleep still, but Nick doesn't seem to mind, which means Brandon just presses for more, lets the moment stretch out.

He pulls away eventually, presses his face into the crook of Nick's shoulder, breathing him in. He tracks the feel of Nick's beard against his cheek and ear, the faintly salty-sweat taste of Nick's skin, the way he shudders under Brandon when he drags his teeth over the pulse point at the base of his neck and how Nick's hands are quick to tug Brandon firmly on top of him, lining their bodies up quickly and effectively.

Brandon gets his hands up under Nick's shirt, rubs his palms over his nipples and enjoys the way he inhales sharply, biting his own lip and arching up into Brandon's touch.

"You wanna?" Brandon asks, letting his thigh push between Nick's, giving him something to rub up against if he wants to.

"Want what?" Nick asks, somewhat rhetorically, because sometimes he seems to just enjoy making Brandon say it.

"Morning sex?" Brandon's hard too, but he wants to wait, wants to get Nick off first.

"Oh, yeah, yes, please," Nick says, stumbling over the words, over-tired and too turned on to enunciate more clearly.

"Cool," Brandon says, and then, "fuck, why are you wearing dress pants?"

"I was on a plane like three hours ago," Nick points out reasonably.

"You normally sleep naked," Brandon argues, because he's known that even longer than they've been sleeping together. Brandon has a lot of experience in _not looking_ because that's not bros.

"You were only half awake when I got here," Nick says, "I didn't want to make it awkward!"

"Feel free to be less considerate and more naked next time, then," Brandon says, and balances on his knees, sitting back on his heels to help Nick unbutton and unzip and then shuffling to his side long enough to tug both underwear and pants down far enough for him to kick them off.

"Better," Brandon says with satisfaction, and Nick sinks back into the mattress with a quiet, appreciative moan as Brandon gets a hand on him, grip tight and confident and sure.

* * *

They spend most of the morning in bed, and by the time they drag themselves out into the rest of the apartment it's almost midday, and Brandon is starving. Nick has to be the same, if not worse, since he's been up even longer and Brandon's pretty sure nothing worth eating is open at any airport first thing in the morning.

"I think I have eggs?" Brandon says, opening the fridge and staring at the contents. He ordered groceries... last week? Something like that. There's frozen meals stacked up and takeout, but he feels like they should at least acknowledge that they skipped breakfast. Also: protein.

"Omelets?" Nick suggests, crowding behind Brandon and leaning over his shoulder to survey their options. Brandon grins to himself and enjoys the feeling for a moment before remembering that they can't eat till they start cooking, and he's wasting time and electricity staring.

"Sounds good to me," he agrees, and grabs the egg carton, cheese, and turkey bacon on his first pass, dumping them onto the counter before going back for peppers and whatever other vegetables he's got that don't look sad and wilted. They should probably order in again later in the day anyway, a lot of places will be closed tomorrow.

"I'll get the vegetables if you want to start the eggs?" Nick suggests, and Brandon nods, letting Nick grab a chopping board and knife and get to work while he pulls out a couple of pans. They move around each other easily in the smaller space; Nick knows his kitchen about as well as he did his own— his and Shawzy's, Brandon corrects himself. Nick's spent a lot of time here, it's not unexpected.

It's alarmingly easy to fall back into that familiar pattern, though, and Brandon nearly forgets to check if the pan's hot enough before tipping the egg mixture in, too busy staring blankly at the stove and wondering if this is good or bad. He moves on automatic, dropping the bacon into the other frying pan, prodding it with a spatula to make sure it doesn't stick.

They've spent a lot of time together since Brandon first got called up, the only difference is that now they're looking _and_ touching. And Brandon hasn't properly seen Nick in three weeks, so why is he wasting the forty-some hours they've got together second-guessing himself? They can't exactly undo this, anyway. And while he's being honest with himself, Brandon has to admit that he wouldn't want to. Even if long-distance is tough, it's miles better than never getting any of this.

"Ready?" Nick asks, and Brandon shakes the mood off, looks back over his shoulder at him.

"Yeah," he says, and steps aside so Nick can drop the chopped veggies and cheese in on top of the egg, gives it a minute and then neatly flips them over into halves, letting the edges seal up and the other side cook through.

"Nice," Nick says, and the food's pretty much ready by this point, so Brandon turns the stove off and grabs Nick for one more kiss, fast but with a lot of tongue. By the time he lets go and leans around him to grab the plates from the counter top, Nick's looking a little shell-shocked.

"What was that for?" he asks, licking his lips, gaze steady on Brandon.

"Just felt like it," Brandon says lightly, and then adds, "hey, grab some forks as well?"

"Sure," Nick says, but he's still watching Brandon closely — and not just in the way where Brandon can tell he's thinking about getting naked with him again sooner rather than later. Though, yeah, there's some of that.

After they've eaten, they dump the dishes into the sink for later and drift into the living room. Brandon grabs his laptop and puts in another grocery order before he can forget, leaning into Nick and making him add whatever he feels like eating as well. He pays the extra for delivery in the next couple hours, checks that he'll hear his phone if they can't buzz up for some reason, and then closes the laptop, stows it under the table.

"Want to watch a movie or something?" He and Nick have never really had trouble entertaining themselves; they tend to default to trashy TV or movies or gaming, but Brandon isn't sure if maybe they should make an effort to do something else instead, something more date-like.

"Cool with me," Nick says. "See what's on demand?" He tosses the remote to Brandon one-handed and then scoots closer on the couch, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Brandon flicks through the first couple of screens of options without really paying much attention, he figures Nick will say something if he sees something he likes. He's a little distracted: Nick's right there, and Brandon is acutely conscious of the way he's securely tucked under Nick's arm. He's still not used to basically cuddling with someone who's more or less the same size as he is.

"You okay?" Nick asks, perceptive as always, though Brandon figures it can't help that he's not great at guarding his own expressions either.

"Yeah," Brandon says after a moment, and lets himself lean in more heavily, curling up with his feet on the couch and his knees on Nick's thigh. He's about as close as they can comfortably get to sitting in Nick's lap, really, and he's— more fine with that than he'd have guessed. "This is good."

"Okay," Nick says, and then, "Hey, that one was good, right?" and so they wind up watching one of the Fast and the Furious sequels. Or rather, they watch half of it, because about forty-five minutes in Brandon remembers the other traditional part of a movie-watching date. And yeah: making out on the couch is definitely more interesting than watching expensive cars do increasingly improbable stunts.

* * *

By the time they're interrupted by the doorbell buzzing from downstairs, Brandon's got Nick flat on his back on the couch, one hand under his shirt, the other buried in his hair, thumb stroking along the line of his jaw, and he's completely lost track of whatever was happening in the movie. Brandon grumbles but climbs off Nick, rolling onto his knees by the couch before standing up. Nick blinks a couple of times, visibly takes a deep breath and then sits up himself.

"I need to get that," Brandon says apologetically.

"Yeah," Nick says, still a little dazed, and then he focuses, looks straight at Brandon and bites his lip.

"What?" Brandon says, squinting narrowly.

"You, uh. Yeah, you should get the door," Nick says, which is an avoidance tactic if Brandon's ever heard one.

"Right," he says, and walks over to the intercom in the kitchen to buzz the delivery person in, taking an embarrassing but necessary moment of privacy in there to yank his shirt down over his sweats, in the hope that his obvious hard-on will be, well, less obvious.

Brandon's pretty sure that the delivery guy doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary, and there's only a couple bags, anyway; it's easy enough to grab them all in one hand and then sign the delivery slip with the other, adding a decent tip. It's still fucking cold out there.

He takes another five minutes to put everything away, and then ducks into the bathroom. And, oh, that explains Nick's reaction, because when he looks in the mirror over the sink pretty much every part of his face not hidden by the beard is still faintly pink. His lower lip is slightly swollen where he'd bitten it earlier and Nick had followed suit. He has a really obvious hickey on the side of his neck, too. Fuck, anyone looking at him would know exactly what he's been doing.

"Hey," Nick says from the doorway. Brandon can see his reflection over his shoulder, too. He looks uncertain, forehead creased in concern. "You didn't come back, everything okay?"

"Uh, yeah," Brandon says, turning to face him, leaning against the sink. "I just." He has to grin then, because this is funny, and kind of dumb, and it's fine. "I think I get why you laughed."

"Oh," Nick says, and steps into the room, moving into Brandon's space. "You're just normally so together," he adds, and Brandon can translate the shrug that follows as an unspoken, 'except for now'.

"You mess with my chill," Brandon jokes, but he ruins the effect by reaching out to get his hands back on Nick. "Want to get back to doing that?"

"Yeah," Nick says, getting with the program admirably fast, hands framing Brandon's face, and Brandon can't help the shudder that rolls through him, knows he's blushing again, but he just really likes Nick's hands on him, especially when he's grinning like this.

Brandon's hands tighten automatically on Nick's hips, and he swallows quickly, mouth feeling dry, but Nick doesn't leave him hanging for more than another moment or two before he leans in to kiss him again.

Nick's clearly a man on a mission this time, so Brandon lets him set their pace, taking his cues from him. Nick's mouth is soft and easy and absolutely relentless against his, and it's turning Brandon on even more; an electric tension building everywhere they're touching, almost overwhelming before Brandon has to pull away for a second just to breathe.

He's about to suggest they maybe move back to the bedroom, or the living room, or anywhere that has a suitably horizontal surface, but then Nick licks his lips and that distracts Brandon long enough that before he can actually put the words together Nick's talking again.

"Sorry, I just realized — you're probably calling your family tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah," Brandon says cautiously, because he's got no idea where Nick's going with this, other than bringing up his parents being a great way of getting his libido under control again. That seems counter-productive given where Nick's hands were ten minutes ago, though, so he'll just have to wait to hear him out. "I was going to Skype them in the morning, or, you know. Whenever everyone's awake."

"Right," Nick says, looking sheepish, "I just realized we should be careful if you want to look normal tomorrow."

Brandon shivers a little, because he likes it when Nick's less careful with him, but it's a fair point. And reminds him of something he'd been thinking about, too.

"My mom's just going to make sad noises about the beard again anyway," he says. "I was thinking about shaving, maybe? It's not like we've got much of a streak going right now, anyway," and he punctuates that with a bit of a shove to Nick's shoulder, since they both know full well when the Hawks hit a rough patch.

Nick's hands are still on Brandon's face, but now he tilts his head, considering.

"Well, you know I like it," he says, "But it is a little—" his thumbs slide along Brandon's jaw, nails scratching bluntly at the edges of his beard, "—much, maybe."

Nick's pressing his thumbs in a little too hard, holding Brandon's face right there, fingertips dragging over the coarse hair, tracing where it's all straggly around the edges.

Brandon goes from distracted to even more turned on in about a microsecond; fuck, he just wants to rub his face all over Nick's body, and if the way he's looking at him is any indication, he'd be totally into that.

"I mean," Nick goes on, still touching his face, "It's definitely uneven, too."

Unlike some people, Brandon didn't actually bother shaving or trimming his beard this morning. That’s not much of a defense, though, so instead he points out that Nick's fetish for symmetry is kind of obvious, and Nick just gives him a silent eyebrow raise in response.

"I'm just saying," Brandon says, a little reckless, but they're right there, so why not, "You could help me with that."

He's too smart for his own good, it turns out, because Nick just says, "Sure," his eyes hot, but hands steady as he digs the razor and shaving cream out of the mess of toiletries by the sink.

Nick pauses for a moment then, waiting for Brandon to focus. "So, losing all of it?"

"Yeah," Brandon says, because it feels like it's time. He's ready for a change.

"Okay," Nick says, and his hands are gentle as he tilts Brandon's chin up, angles the razor to start there. Brandon can't remember having ever had anyone else do this for him, which is possibly for the best, because he's definitely getting off on this. He's having to work hard not to wriggle more than is probably wise to do with someone else holding a razor to his face, however safe a modern electric one is.

Nick's clearly thinking along the same lines because after making a few short strokes up the side of his neck he gives up and nudges Brandon back until he's leaning against the sink, giving him something to brace himself on. The porcelain is cold against the small of his back where his shirt's ridden up again, but Nick's a solid line of heat against him from neck to knee.

Brandon keeps finding himself holding his breath as Nick moves the razor in smooth strokes, up along the line of his throat, and then over his jaw line, his cheeks, carefully around his mouth.

He figures they have to be close to done when Nick thumbs the power off, reaching behind Brandon to drop the razor in the sink, and says "I'll finish this in a sec," and gets his hands on Brandon's ass.

Brandon started this, and Brandon asked for it, but it feels like they've changed places almost, because this time it's Nick pushing them both, Nick holding him up against the sink, pressing into him and cruise-directing. Nick yanking his pants down over his thighs, and, okay, sure, he's on his knees — on the bath mat, that's convenient — but Brandon's never felt less in control.

He's so tense all over, Nick's hardly even touched him yet, just pressed up against him tight that one time before he backed off, and he wants to twist his hands into Nick's hair, or grab his shoulders, or his head, or something. He shouldn't, though, so he makes a conscious effort to relax, forcing his fingers to uncurl, just kind of petting Nick's hair. Nick nuzzles into him, hands warm on his thighs, rubbing up and down from his hips and over his quads, keeping him still against the sink. The porcelain's starting to warm up, a little, or maybe he's just distracted.

"You can pull my hair," Nick says, and his breath is warm on Brandon's dick, his face right there, and Brandon definitely makes an embarrassing noise before following directions. He can see Nick grin right before he gets his mouth on Brandon's dick, and even though it's got to be, like, the eighth time he's seen that, it's still so fucking hot that his brain wants to kind of short out.

* * *

By the time Brandon's actually confident his knees aren't going to give out if he tries to stand, they're both mostly naked and sprawled on the tiles beside the tub. The bath mat has wound up mostly under Nick, and Brandon is idly curious about whether it's possible to get the equivalent of rug burn from terrycloth, but he figures they'll find out soon enough.

They're both filthy and breathing hard, and Brandon rolls off Nick to lie beside him, squirming around so his head is resting on Nick's biceps. Nick doesn't bother shoving him off, so Brandon concentrates on breathing some more, briefly enjoying the way the tiles feel cool against his skin where he's overheated, although that'll probably get less pleasant fast. He blinks a few times and then finds his eyes are focusing on the light fitting, and the extractor fan next to it.

"Wow, I really need to get that cleaned," he says, and it's dumbly satisfying to find that Nick's apparently noticing the same thing, because he just says, "Yeah, probably. Need a ladder, though."

"Did I say thanks?" Brandon adds a few minutes later, feeling like he can be a bit more ambitious now that his pulse isn't echoing in his ears, racing at a hundred miles an hour. "You're really good at that. Really, really good."

"Thanks," Nick says lazily, and when Brandon turns his head to look at him he's got his eyes closed again, looks sweaty and wrecked and entirely comfortable. "You too," he adds a moment later. "No complaints here."

Brandon snorts. "That's flattering."

Nick reaches across himself to swat at Brandon, just catching his flank. "Do you prefer 'you blew my mind'? I mean, you did."

Brandon can't help grinning more at that. He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, taken aback for a moment by the lack of beard there, but mostly all he's focusing on is a vague desire to brush his teeth again sometime soon.

"Shower and maybe finish the movie?" Nick suggests eventually. He still hasn't made any more of an attempt to move than Brandon has. That's also pretty satisfying.

"Yeah," Brandon says. He sits up with a groan; apparently some muscle groups have started getting stiff already.

He manages to get to his feet more or less gracefully, then ducks down again to give Nick a hand getting up. Nick straightens up and then winces noticeably, rubbing the small of his back.

"You okay?" Brandon asks.

Nick stretches carefully, rolling his shoulders, and then uses his foot to nudge their pile of discarded clothes towards the doorway. "Yeah. That was fun, but—"

"Never again?" Brandon finishes, because, yeah, it was hot, but he's pretty sure it would've been just as hot if they'd made it as far as the bed first, too.

"Yeah," Nick says. "I mean. We're not actually horny teenagers who have to sneak around."

Brandon has a brief flash of memory of some of the places he'd tried hooking up when he was still a teenager and can't agree quick enough.

"Speaking of," Brandon says, leaning into the shower and starting the water running. "Can you keep your hands to yourself long enough to get in with me, or do you want to wait?"

"Can do," Nick says, before reaching over to run his thumb along the line of Brandon's jaw. It feels ridiculously intimate, like his skin is thinner and more sensitive right now. "I missed a spot," he adds, fingertip brushing over the side of Brandon's jaw.

Brandon'll have to fix that up later, but the water's running hot enough now, so he steps into the spray of water, shifts over to make room for Nick. Brandon's shower is a lot more cramped than anywhere they've done this before, but they manage to clean off efficiently, and with only the bare minimum of distracting casual touches.

Brandon finishes neatening up the spots Nick had missed with the razor and then does brush his teeth, towel wrapped casually around his waist. By the time he's done, Nick's dried off and found a fresh t-shirt, and what Brandon thinks are probably the same sweats. He's just leaning against the door jamb watching Brandon with an unreadable expression that makes Brandon's chest go a little tight, and makes him nearly fumble the razor. He steadies his hand long enough to finish up, steps into his own sweatpants before bundling underwear and t-shirt into the laundry hamper.

"I'll be back in a sec," he says, stepping past Nick and going to dig a clean shirt out of the dresser in his room. He's not sure exactly why he'd had to get away for a second, but by the time he joins Nick on the couch again he feels like they're back to normal, or at least to their new normal.

Brandon fusses with the remote to get the movie back to roughly the last part he thinks he remembers, and wraps his arm around Nick's shoulders. Nick lets himself be manhandled, leaning into Brandon, and — as he'd suspected would happen — falls asleep about ten minutes later. Brandon hits pause, rearranges them both as best he can without waking Nick up, and then lets himself doze off as well.

* * *

The TV's turned itself off by the time they wake up again. Nick's up and moving first, and it's his weight moving off Brandon's side that wakes him up in turn.

Brandon has to rub hard at his eyes before he feels like he can open them properly; despite the nap he's still ridiculously tired, the season starting to catch up with him in earnest. It's a good time to have a few days off.

"Just getting a drink," Nick says, voice low and quiet, like he doesn't want to disturb Brandon any more. Now that he's awake he doesn't think he's going to sleep more any time soon, though. It seems like a safe bet that he and Nick will tire each other out later, and they don't have anywhere to be tomorrow, so he's not exactly regretting being up already either.

It's already dark out, so Brandon busies himself by getting up to hit the lights, a little impressed that Nick had navigated back to the kitchen in the dim lighting without barking his shins on anything. He draws the curtains, blocking out the faint wash of the city lights outside, and jacks the thermostat up again as well. They've lost a fair bit of heat through the windows even with the triple glazing his building manager swears they have.

When Nick comes back in — carrying a couple glasses of water, and yeah, they've probably been a bit less responsible about hydrating than normal today, oops — Brandon's back on the couch, toying with the remote and thinking.

"Thanks," he says, taking the glass from Nick and taking a couple sips right away

Nick's doing much the same, and Brandon watches him out of the corner of his eye, fidgeting a little with a thread that's come loose from the inseam at the knee of his pants. Nick sets his tumbler back onto the coffee table by the time it’s nearly empty and leans into Brandon.

"Any requests?" Brandon asks lightly, willing to leave it up to Nick exactly how seriously he wants to answer that.

"Dinner and a movie?" Nick suggests almost immediately, which tells Brandon that he's been thinking about it, too.

It's not like they can't entertain themselves, and Brandon doesn't need to be attached at the hip to him every minute of the day even if they're working within a time limit, but it's kind of reassuring to know he's not the only one floundering a little. It's still weird going from seeing each other all the time to having to pack everything in to these tiny, intense moments. Brandon suspects it's going to stay weird for a while, too.

But that's a good suggestion; Brandon's stomach is definitely starting to complain about how long it's been since he — ate something, he hurriedly self-corrects — and the idea of having a sort-of-traditional date, even if they are just staying in to do it is appealing.

"Sounds good to me," Brandon says, and kisses Nick quickly, just because he can.

Nick just grins against his mouth and kisses back.

"This isn't going to get you out of unloading the dishwasher later," he says when they break apart, and Brandon swats at him and laughs, joking, "Well, I take it all back then."

They make out for a while longer, and Brandon's starting to get tempted to give up on being sensible and drag Nick back to bed instead when he does finally pull back, putting a clear space between them. It's an obvious message, and Brandon firmly reminds his dick that it can wait, and reminds himself that he's getting laid later, he can certainly be patient now.

"Right," Brandon says. "Dinner."

He gets up and goes to dig around in the fridge for what they'd ordered earlier, setting ingredients out and getting to work. Nick follows him into the kitchen and wordlessly starts loading the dishwasher with the dirty plates they'd left in the sink earlier. Just like before, it's ridiculously easy for Brandon work with and around him, they almost don't need to talk. Although once Brandon's got himself under better control he takes the opportunity to give Nick shit for his terrible football opinions, and that conversation just rolls along like normal, too.

Brandon's nearly done prepping their meal, so Nick sets the table — apparently they're going to eat like actual adults instead of on the couch, which is fine by Brandon. Nick grabs glasses down from the cupboards, then turns back to Brandon.

"Beer or wine?"

Brandon stops to think for a moment, but goes with his instincts again.

"Wine sounds good?"

Nick shoots him a quick grin, and grabs a bottle from the rack, raising an eyebrow as he holds it out for Brandon to inspect. Brandon steps over to check the label, looking down over Nick's shoulder. He could've stepped around him, but it's fun to crowd him a little, and Nick doesn't seem to mind either, just leans back into him.

"That works for me," Brandon says, answering the silent question.

Dinner takes less time to eat than it did to prepare, although Brandon's lingering over his wine, and Nick seems to be doing the same. It's not an outrageously expensive one, but it's nicer than he'd drink regularly, and he's taking the time to enjoy it.

"You want to clear up or pick the movie?" Nick asks.

"Winner picks?" Brandon says almost by reflex; it's still their fall back tie-break.

"On three," Nick agrees, and on three he plays scissors while Brandon plays rock.

"Score," Brandon says, standing up and pushing his chair back in to the table. "You know where the stuff for the dishwasher is, right?"

"You're a terrible host," Nick complains, but he also smacks Brandon's ass as he walks past him, their plates stacked carefully against his hip in his other hand, so Brandon's not going to take that personally at all.

It doesn't take Brandon long at all to pick a DVD out — it would be practically a crime to not watch Die Hard — and he ends up drifting back into the kitchen a minute later anyway. There wasn't really much cleaning up to do, and Nick's got two glasses in one hand and the open bottle of wine in the other, clearly about to carry them into the living room.

"That was fast," Nick says, bumping the dishwasher closed with his hip and then putting the wine down long enough to hit the start button.

Brandon reaches over to grab the wine himself and gives Nick a slow, deliberate once-over. "Same to you. Die Hard sound good?"

"Always," Nick says with a grin and follows Brandon back into the living room.

They settle back into their usual spots on the couch, and Brandon takes his glass and then starts the DVD. He slouches a little, the wine starting to loosen his muscles, making him extra aware of Nick beside him, all warmth and solidity. It's nothing they haven't been doing all day anyway, but Brandon feels like he's getting away with something as he slides down, lets himself lean into Nick's space, shifting until they're both settled and comfortable.

"Hey, we forgot something," Nick says a few minutes later.

Brandon tenses up, and then feels dumb because he knows Nick can tell, and he's laughing, just a little, under his breath.

"What?" he asks, and Nick turns his head to meet his gaze, ducks his chin to steal a kiss first.

"Popcorn," Nick says. "Do you have any?"

"You're a dick," Brandon says, and isn't shy at all about punching him in the thigh, and then leaning right on that spot as he stands up to go dig out the microwave popcorn he's eighty percent sure he still has from the last time they watched movies here. Nick just grins at him, all teeth and dancing eyes, and doesn't even flinch.

Brandon figures that date night — or as close as they're gonna get to it any time soon — rates something a little nicer than usual, so he dumps the popcorn into a salad bowl when it's done instead of just leaving it in the bag.

He leans over the back of the couch to put the bowl down by Nick's side, and takes the other side, fitting himself between Nick and the armrest. Nick wraps his arm around his shoulders again obligingly, and Brandon lets himself zone out.

He has to reach over Nick to grab a handful of popcorn himself, which promptly gets stuck in his teeth. There's no dignified way to deal with that, and Brandon's not all that hungry anyway, so he gives up on the rest of the popcorn and lets his hand come back to rest on Nick's thigh while he tries to subtly work the popcorn hull off his teeth without actually having to stick his fingers in his mouth. He's pretty sure that would warrant some comment. He can probably get it off with his tongue, anyway.

On screen, John McClane is just stepping into the express elevator, about to head up to the 30th floor, and Brandon thinks, ' _the hell with it_ ' and slides his hand down towards Nick's knee. He lets his fingertips trace along the seam of his pants, down, and then back up, repeating the motion a few times, appreciating the way that Nick shifts in response. Either the thermostat has finally kicked in or the alcohol's hitting him more than usual, because Brandon feels warm all through, too-hot and impatient and definitely more than a little turned on.

Brandon skims his hand a little higher up Nick's leg then, letting the heel of his palm dig into muscle. Nick shifts again, knees splaying further apart and he nearly knocks the bowl of popcorn over as he tries to encourage Brandon's hand to slip closer to his dick. Brandon completely loses track of the movie at that point, paying far more attention to seeing how much he can tease before Nick breaks and straight up asks for more. As it turns out, he can get his hand so high up Nick's thigh that Brandon knocks the back of his hand against his dick before he quite realizes he's that close. It's almost shockingly hot, and Brandon makes an involuntary noise — which Nick echoes — because his pants are absolutely thin enough that Brandon can feel how turned on he is.

"Fuck," Nick hisses, and he shoves the bowl further away, fumbles for the remote and hits pause on his second or third attempt before turning to Brandon and demanding, "Saader, fucking— just touch me already."

Brandon fights the impulse to crawl into his lap and grind against him because they've done that already today and they're not actually teenagers, however much he might feel like one right now.

"Bedroom?" he asks, and Nick's on his feet so fast that Brandon nearly tips over into the space he's left.

"Yes," Nick says, impatient, his words coming out too fast and a little louder than usual. "Take me to bed already."

"You're right," Brandon says, forcing himself to slow down and to sound more casual than he feels, as if his heart rate isn't going a million miles an hour already and like he's not itching to strip Nick off and touch him everywhere again. "We should totally watch Top Gun tomorrow."

Nick doesn't even manage a response to that at first, just crowds Brandon back against the hall door and kisses him hard, lips and teeth and tongue just the right kind of aggressive to send Brandon's system into overdrive.

"You're a terrible wingman, Saader," he says eventually, and his hands are busy yanking at Brandon's shirt before slipping under the waistband of his sweats. His thumb slips over Brandon's hipbone, and Brandon has to bite back a wholly inappropriate giggle as he realizes that's partly the butter from the popcorn still on his skin. This part was definitely never in any of the cliched dates he's seen on TV.

"What?" Nick asks, leaning back, although he doesn't actually move his hands, still curving over Brandon's hips and ass, warm on bare skin.

"Nothing, just," Brandon takes a slow breath in and tries not sound too dumb. "Just, um. We could wash our hands first? But then sex, definitely."

Nick does pull his hands back at that point, clasps them together and then makes a mildly disgusted face. "Okay, yeah," he says. And then, a little sheepishly. "Gonna brush my teeth first, too."

Brandon nods, but he does break down and snicker helplessly when Nick looks back over his shoulder as they're walking — fast — into the bathroom and adds, "By the way, you have popcorn stuck in your teeth."

* * *

Brandon sleeps late the next morning, pleasantly tired out and happy to take advantage of having nowhere to be. Despite the fact that his bed is more than big enough to fit two adults comfortably, he wakes up with Nick plastered against his back, and the realization that they're also right up against the edge of the mattress. They could just about fit a third person on the whole other half of the bed they're not using, Brandon thinks.

He doesn't bother trying to move; he's warm everywhere he's touching Nick, and the novelty of waking up with anyone in his bed hasn't exactly worn off yet. He hasn't had a steady relationship last even this long before, even if the fact they're hardly ever even in the same time zone complicates things. It does mean he's going to lie there and just appreciate the moment until either Nick wakes up or he has to move, though.

Which was all good in theory, Brandon thinks belatedly, except after a few minutes he's beginning to be uncomfortably aware that he's maybe too warm, starting to sweat where his skin is pressed against Nick's, that he'd really like to do something about his morning wood sooner rather than later, and that he's also kind of bored. He can see the clock on the nightstand without having to crane his neck too much; it's only just after nine, and close to a time where he's not going to feel bad waking Nick up. He bargains with himself to stick it out for five more minutes first, and closes his eyes, letting his head sink back into the pillow and starting to run through some of the plays they'd been working on to tweak the power-play at the last practice.

That turns out to be a mistake, because Nick wakes up on his own a few seconds later, and when he moves to run a hand down Brandon's side, saying "Hey," Brandon startles and nearly knocks his shoulder back into Nick's face.

"That could've gone better," Nick observes after Brandon rolls over to face him, trails his fingertips apologetically over the side of Nick's jaw, giving him a rueful grin.

"Sorry," Brandon says.

"What were you thinking about?" Nick asks, reaching out to tug Brandon closer, wriggling to keep his shoulders and chest still under the blankets, warm and lazy.

"Where Tazer wants a touch pass," Brandon answers automatically, and then bites his lip, because that might be true but it's also really obviously not what Nick was leading up to.

Nick's eyes go wider for a second, but then he just laughs, bringing his hand back to scrub over his face, rubbing his eyes. "Of course," he says.

Brandon knows he's blushing, hopes the faint wash of pink over his face isn't too obvious. "I was thinking about sex right before that," he adds defensively, and wow, yeah, that doesn't actually make it any better, does it?

"Hopefully not with Tazer," Nick says dryly, and Brandon knows his face is somewhere between horrified and slightly guilty — he might've thought about it once or twice, he's only human, but also fuck and no, mostly.

"Nah," he says and takes that as a good invitation to roll over and climb on top of Nick, pushing his shoulders back flat into the mattress, getting one knee either side of his hips. "More like doing this." He catches Nick's gaze then, waits a beat and then asks, "This okay?"

"Fuck, yes," Nick says, and his eyes have already slipped south, his hands starting to follow the same path a second later.

Neither of them had bothered putting any sort of clothing back on the night before. Brandon would normally sleep in boxers or sweats, but moving post sex had seemed like far too much effort. And it makes it easier now, too; Brandon leans back just enough to let his weight settle heavily over Nick's lower body, feels the tension in his thighs as he strains upward. He can tell Nick's hard too, his dick pushing against Brandon's belly when he rocks forward, making them both hiss.

"Fuck," Brandon bites out as Nick gets his hands on him, one digging into the cut of muscle above his hip, the other curling familiarly around his dick, stroking him dry and fast.

"Come on," Nick says, impatience in every line of his body, still restlessly trying to move under Brandon.

"How fast do you want this to be over?" Brandon asks, mostly rhetorically, although fuck, if Nick actually follows through with the tease over the skin around his balls then this really is going to be a one and done.

"Saader," Nick complains, licking his lips, and Brandon thinks the iron hold he has on his side might actually bruise, and he's— definitely into that, too.

"Fine," Brandon says, and grabs at Nick's wrist, detaching his grip carefully from his dick and directing his hand to mirror the other on Brandon's hips. "Give me a second, just—"

Brandon reaches over to the other side of the bed, patting over the sheets and the corner of the comforter that's still hanging on that half, looking for the shape of a bottle, which he eventually manages to find shoved under the pillow on the far side of the bed.

He flicks the lid open one-handed, squeezing out enough lube to cover his hand before settling back on his heels. Nick's just watching him quietly, still breathing too fast but clearly getting himself more under control with every passing moment, trusting Brandon to call the shots. Once Brandon feels like he's got his own equilibrium back he leans in to kiss Nick, open-mouthed and dirty, and Nick melts into him with a sigh.

Brandon doesn't stop kissing him, but he does shift his weight a little, getting his center of gravity aligned better where he needs it to be, and then he frees one hand to reach between their bodies, wrapping a loose fist around Nick's cock, starting to jerk him off. He deliberately starts out slow, speeding up in response to the way Nick moans and arches his back. The back of his wrist is dragging against his own dick on every upstroke, and Brandon doesn't bother to restrain his own reactions, grinding down, chasing the sensation.

Nick's making more noise now, kissing back almost desperately, his beard rough against Brandon's lips and the skin around his mouth. His hips shift with tiny constant movements as he lets Brandon jerk him off, and his hands are tensing and releasing as he gets closer, his grip leaving marks against Brandon’s skin. He lets his head fall back into the pillow, breathing fast and loud, his eyes intent on Brandon as he manages to choke out a warning, tripping over the syllables as he bites his own lip, swears, and then comes.

Brandon gentles his grip but strokes him through it, touching him lightly until Nick makes an inarticulate noise and grabs at his wrist, saying, "can't— too much, fuck."

Brandon clenches his jaw and leans back a little, finally getting his hand on his own dick, almost dizzy with how turned on he is. He jerks himself off fast and wet, hand slippery with lube and Nick's come, which maybe shouldn't make it hotter, but it does.

He comes all over them both, and then has to shakily roll off Nick, flopping back onto the mattress beside him, filthy and still breathing hard. Fuck, he feels good.

He gives himself a couple of moments to be sure he's regained the power of speech, and then turns his head to look at Nick.

"So," Brandon says. "Merry Christmas?"

"Wow, that feels inappropriate," Nick says, grinning back at him, before adding, "That better not be all you got me."

"Greedy," Brandon says, and knocks their ankles together. He's can't stop himself from grinning just as broadly as Nick is, though, which takes all of the sting out of it.

It takes them a while to actually get up for the day; Brandon gets distracted first by his phone — there's a bunch of texts, even if most of them aren't all that personal — and then by Nick, who'd picked up his own phone, spent about two minutes checking it before shrugging and tossing it back to the end of the bed, and then rolled over to see what Brandon was doing. That sort of inevitably turned back into more making out, the sheet caught between them, and it's a lot later by the time that Brandon can tear himself away.

They split time in the bathroom, getting ready for the day. Brandon takes the time to fix his hair after he's dressed, wiping condensation off the mirror while Nick showers, checking that he looks presentable.

"I'm gonna call my folks," he calls, pitching his voice so it's audible over the water.

Nick leans out, sticking his head around the shower curtain.

"Okay, cool. I can hang out wherever to give you some privacy?" he says, blinking water out of his eyes, clearly halfway through washing his hair.

"Uh, thanks," Brandon says, trying to drag his thoughts back from the immediate distraction. Nick's hair looks darker wet, and Brandon's gaze gets caught by the tiny freckles on his collarbone, and— no, right, he needs to go call his mom.

"I'll just be in the kitchen," he says, and hurries out of the room before he winds up getting any later.

* * *

Brandon retrieves his laptop from the living room and sets it up on the kitchen counter, perching on a stool in front of it before grabbing his phone to call home first.

His mom answers right away, sounding just the same as always, and clearly happy to hear from him. They catch up fast, and Brandon's about to ask to speak to his dad when he remembers the whole reason he was calling was to check if they were free for video chat.

"We're not eating for a while yet, honey, sure we can," she says, and Brandon makes a mental note to avoid mentioning that he hasn't even had breakfast yet.

His dad and brother are both standing behind his mom when the video connects, both bending awkwardly to try and get all three of them on the screen; it never works all that well and they try every time anyway.

As he'd expected, his mom is thrilled that he's actually shaved off the beard, and spends a good five minutes telling him so. George claims he looks more mature without it, which seems unlikely, but he at least manages to not tell him he's full of shit where his mom will hear and make disapproving faces about 'locker room language'. He thinks the raised eyebrow gets his message across, anyhow, but what are brothers for if not to give each other a hard time?

The discussion sidetracks from there into the weather — the lack of snow in Pittsburgh and Chicago both — to the news and circles back around to what they've been up to; how the family business is doing and how his dad's looking forward to the father's trip next year.

He wasn't exactly homesick or anything; he's been away from home too long to really feel that often, but it settles something in his chest to get to talk to his parents. Especially knowing that most people are with their families over the Christmas break, whether they celebrate or not. It's been hard to avoid thinking of them, and getting to see even the fuzzy video and hear his mom and dad gently teasing each other, forgetting for a few moments that he's not with them in person — it's almost as good as being there. He's still sure that he made the right choice to stay in Chicago, and not just because it's extra time with Nick, but it's good to see that his family are okay, too.

They all gang up on him a little bit, and George expresses a completely unfair and unfounded accusation about how likely he is to break his nutrition plan over the holidays, which he mostly hasn't done, so there. His mom tells him she's sure he's looking after himself just fine, which is somehow more comforting than patronizing when it's coming from her.

His dad and George both say goodbye quickly as their conversation starts winding down, their subtle way of giving him a bit of privacy to talk to his mom alone. He hadn't exactly been down — one bad loss right before the break hadn't totally washed out the euphoria of shutting out the Leafs, and he's been pretty effectively distracted since then — but he feels a hundred times better talking to her for a while, still.

It's not till after they've said goodbye and Brandon disconnects the call that he realizes that at no point did any of them ask what he's doing today. They'd all taken pains to talk around that, and he hadn't brought it up either. Which tells him, he thinks, staring at the blank computer screen, that they know something's going on, and they're just waiting for him to be ready to talk about it.

They know he's seeing someone, but he hasn't wanted to get into more details than that yet. And even when it was just him and his mom on the phone, she hasn't pushed for more than he's wanted to talk about. It's a gesture of trust that is completely typical of how they've raised him, and Brandon is grateful for that, even as he's now inevitably starting to consider how to tell them. It feels like it's time.

* * *  
It takes him a couple minutes to shake off the mood, and when he heads back into the living room it's to find Nick curled up on the couch, intent on his phone. He's barefoot, toes shoved under the cushion that Brandon keeps for the days when he wants to nap on the couch.

"Hey," Brandon says, after he's paused for a moment to check that Nick's not on his phone, or face-timing anyone or whatever. "Did you want to call your folks?"

"I'm gonna give them another hour first," Nick says easily, not looking up from the screen. "Mom and dad were _not_ sad when me and Tyler grew up enough to stop waking them up before 9 on Christmas."

"Yeah, fair," Brandon says, and walks over to him, dropping the cushion over the arm of the couch and then sitting on Nick's feet before he can even open his mouth to complain.

"You better not be trying to slow down the competition," Nick says, flexing his foot so his toes dig into Brandon's ass. It's a move right out of the intro chapters of the sibling squabble textbook, and Brandon just leans back and makes himself heavier until Nick gives up.

"Please, like I need to try," Brandon replies, and reaches over to pat Nick's knee mock-patronizingly.

"Gonna get you for that later," Nick says lazily, and he looks up then, scans Brandon's face and seems pleased with whatever he sees there. Brandon's suddenly acutely self-conscious about whatever it is his expression is doing, but he tries not to dwell on that too much. It's okay if Nick can tell what he's thinking.

"So, what's up?" Brandon asks.

"Boych wanted to say hi," Nick says. "And JT and a few of the other guys jumped in on a mass text, and," he shrugs, sliding his phone back into his pocket as he speaks. "You know what it's like." Brandon really does.

"Breakfast?" he asks after a minute, because his body is starting to vigorously protest the total breakdown of his usual routine, and he's kind of starving again.

"Sounds good," Nick says, and doesn't make any move to get up. Brandon raises an eyebrow at him.

"You have to move first," Nick points out, reaching out to jab his index finger into Brandon's side accusingly.

"What's the magic word?" Brandon asks, almost on reflex, and he's about to get up anyway when without missing a beat, Nick replies, "Blowjob?"

Brandon doesn't quite trip over his own feet, but it's close.

Nick just laughs at him. "Later, yeah? But you should definitely feed me now."

It's not quite an innuendo.

But it's not _not_ , either.

"I like the way you think," Brandon manages to say, finally finding his own equilibrium. Switching from family mode back to boyfriend mode is kind of giving him whiplash. It's probably a good thing if he has to focus on throwing together a trainer-approved breakfast for the both of them.

He heads back into the kitchen, Nick trailing right behind him, close enough that if Brandon stopped suddenly he'd run right into him. Brandon's fine with that; he usually performs better under pressure. He's just occupied thinking about how he should still have some of Nick's preferred flavor of protein powder for smoothies, too. He's totally got all of this under control.

* * *

Breakfast takes a little longer than usual, mostly because they keep getting in each other's way. Nick's taking every excuse he can manufacture to get his hands on Brandon — or to knock their shoulders together, or their hips, and he reaches past Brandon to grab some yogurt out of the fridge in a way that probably counts as foreplay all on its own. Brandon's not exactly a paragon of restraint either; he's giving as good as he's getting in terms of faux-casual touches.

It doesn't even feel like this is necessarily going to lead anywhere; Nick's not saying anything, just grinning whenever he catches Brandon's eye. He's only got Nick for the rest of the day before the season swallows them both up again, they've got a lot to fit in over this time.

"I'm gonna call home now," Nick says after they're rinsing their plates at the sink. He kisses Brandon quickly and then tears himself away with obvious reluctance.

"I can go do something in my room?" Brandon suggests. He owes Nick the same level of privacy he'd granted him.

"Nah," Nick says, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "I'm not, like. Gonna kick you out of your own living room, or whatever."

"You can borrow my computer if you want to Skype them?" Brandon offers. It's the least he can do after getting to steal Nick away for the break.

"Regular phone's fine, but thanks," Nick says, curling his fingers around Brandon's wrist, leading him back into the living room. "Sit with me?"

"Okay," Brandon says, feeling an unaccustomed lump in his throat. This is— he's not sure what it is. But something about how Nick's touching him — less teasing, more just pure affection — it's making it difficult to keep his cool. They're just in Brandon's apartment, but Nick is still basically holding his hand, and Brandon's not used to something that innocent making his heart rate kick up a beat.

Nick drops back onto the couch and digs his cell out of his pocket. Brandon doesn't want to crowd him, so he settles against the arm of the couch, slumping back into it, getting his feet back up onto the table as he sits watching Nick.

Nick puts the phone down on the couch beside himself first, and reaches out like it's the most casual thing in the world, tapping his knuckles on Brandon's shinbone.

"Hmm?" Brandon asks, not sure what Nick wants.

"C'mere," Nick says, tapping his own knees, and it takes Brandon a moment to get it, but he turns to face Nick a little more; perpendicular to him on the couch, and stretches out, resting his heels on Nick's thigh. It's a little weird at first, but he relaxes after a moment when Nick just smiles at him and picks his phone up again.

"Hey dad," Nick says when the call connects, and Brandon lets his eyes close most of the way, just watching through his eyelashes a little, so he doesn't miss the open, pleased smile that Nick wears as he wishes his dad a merry Christmas. He also doesn't miss the way the smile doesn't fade a bit as Nick gets his free hand onto Brandon's socked feet, thumb rubbing slow circles around his ankle bone while he talks to his family. Unsurprisingly, he does more listening than he does talking, but the air of quiet contentment gets, if anything, only stronger the more time he's on the phone. He doesn't stop touching Brandon, either.

* * *

Nick's probably on the phone for less time than Brandon was, but by the time he says his goodbyes and hangs up, Brandon's half asleep. He's warm and relaxed, he's napped on this couch a hundred times before; he's just zoning right out.

He wakes up a little more when Nick stops moving, flattens his palm over Brandon's calf muscle, slipping just under the cuff of his pants. He blinks a couple of times, focusing with some effort. Nick looks more amused than anything else, but eventually he pulls his hand back, tugging the fabric back down over Brandon's ankles, patting over the top of it.

"I can get the PS4 out or something," Brandon offers. He can always just watch for a bit till he wakes up, he figures.

"Mm, nah, I think I'm good," Nick says. "You want to go nap? I might join you."

"What, you got a better offer?" Brandon jokes. He doesn't move though; he's comfortable here.

"Not really," Nick says. "I have an email from my agent I should answer, but it's not urgent."

"Okay," Brandon says, and closes his eyes again.

"Saader," Nick says, and his hand is still warm and heavy at Brandon's ankle, grounding him. "Saader, go lie down."

"Bossy," Brandon says, still without opening his eyes.

"Someone has to be," Nick says, and Brandon squints at him, suspicious.

"Huh?"

"You know you'll fuck up your back if you actually fall asleep like that," Nick points out, very reasonably, and Brandon does have to concede the point. Reluctantly.

"If you scoot down you could plug my laptop in and I can stretch out," Brandon suggests. "It's easier than trying to do shit on your phone, too. And you can wake me up when you're done." He feels like all he's really done with Nick recently is eat and fuck and sleep, but they just don't have all that much time during the season. And napping with Nick is rapidly becoming one of his favorite things to do, anyway. Brandon's well aware he's nothing if not consistent.

"Yeah, okay," Nick agrees, and he shuffles to the far end of the couch, fishing Brandon's laptop out from under the coffee table and booting it up.

He clearly remembers Brandon's password from last time they'd hung out — Brandon can't be bothered to change it that often and apparently it's memorable — so he's all set. Brandon stretches out, glad once again that he shelled out the extra for a couch big enough that he can do this, and gives himself permission to doze off. Nick's intermittent typing sounds are close enough to white noise that they don't distract him, and even if they did— it's just another reminder that Brandon's not here alone.

Brandon knows he's got a dumb smile stuck on his face as he drifts off, thinking about that.

This is exactly what he needed.

* * *

It feels like it's late afternoon when Brandon wakes up again. He's lying on his side, pressed up against the back of the couch, one arm possessively wrapped around Nick. He clearly decided to just sack out on the couch with Brandon rather than move them both back to the bedroom, or at least that’s what Brandon’s guessing. He doesn't think he remembers waking up and arguing about it, that’s for sure.

If he did, he clearly won the argument, and he definitely wasn't taking any chances on Nick moving without him knowing, if the way he's also got his ankle hooked around Nick's shins is any indication.

He's mostly awake now, starting to think about how to untangle himself enough to stretch without disturbing Nick, but that ship has apparently sailed if the way he's stirring now is any indication.

"Hey," Brandon says softly, enjoying the way he can feel Nick's ribcage rising and falling against his hand as he breathes in, slow and even.

"Hey to you too," Nick says, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes, but not doing much else other than relaxing back into Brandon's body. That feels pretty good, too.

"You wanna sleep longer, or are you good?" Brandon asks.

"I'm fine," Nick says, before adding, "Also, I have no idea how I keep waking up the big spoon, because you are, I don't know, a fucking octopus or something."

"I am not," Brandon protests, weakly as it turns out, when Nick just pats the back of his hand where it's practically attached above Nick's ribs.

"That's practically a Vulcan death grip," Nick says, though he's still not even trying to move.

"You're such a nerd," Brandon replies automatically.

"Yeah, and you dig it," Nick says comfortably, not missing a beat. Brandon can't argue with that.

"So, I checked your calendar," Nick says, after a they've been lying there for a while, and Brandon's still deciding whether he actually wants to move any time soon.

"Mmm?" Brandon says; he's not sure where Nick's going with this.

"You have any plans for the All-Star break?" he asks, and if Nick's tone is just as casual as before, Brandon can feel that underneath that, he's concerned; his muscles tense and breathing more deliberate.

"I was thinking I might check out New York," Brandon says lightly.

He'd been meaning to say something earlier, too; hasn't bought flights or anything like that, but he's been thinking about it. It's only a couple of weeks away now, not as long as the Olympic break they'd all had last year of course, but still a decent stretch of time to himself.

He's not exactly under any illusions that he's going to Columbus, that's for sure. Especially not with the way the fans and the team media are pushing for the core guys.

"That would be fun," Nick agrees. "I was thinking, uh. I had a good time in Mexico last year, and maybe we could— try that again?"

"Oh," Brandon says, and considers it. Remembers sharing a room last year with Nick, drinking and dancing and swimming, being tempted and never letting himself look too long. "That, yeah, that could also be good. It's not too far for you?"

"The flight isn't much longer, and it's direct to Chicago and to New York," Nick says; he really has put some time into this idea already.

"Boller said he's going to Banff with his girl," Brandon says slowly, thinking his way through it. "He wanted to say sorry for ducking out on the rest of us if we had plans, but Andy and Chaunette were going to see her parents or something, too, so I figured we didn't. They wouldn't think anything of it if we went again, though."

"Yeah," Nick says, and Brandon can feel him starting to relax already. He's not sure what Nick was expecting, Brandon was never going to be a hard sell, especially not for sun and tequila and a hotel room with Nick and no one else they know anywhere nearby. "I, uh. Already bought you flights?"

This time it's Brandon's turn to tense up. He's about to argue — no matter how on board with the idea he is, this is a big deal, and that's presumptuous as hell — but Nick hurries on, adding, "They're refundable, or you can change the time or whatever if you want too, I'm not that— I'm asking you now, but. I wanted that to be your gift."

"Oh," Brandon says, biting his lip. "Then, thank you, that sounds perfect. But seriously, just fucking. Just ask me first, in future. Please."

"You bet," Nick says, and wriggles around under Brandon's arm so he's facing him. "Thanks for, uh. Taking this well?"

Brandon feels the corner of his mouth tugging upwards with a grin, doesn't bother to try too hard to resist it.

"Well, you're lucky you're good in bed," he says, and doesn't manage to hold the poker face for more than a moment before dissolving into laughter. He chokes embarrassingly as Nick jabs a finger hard into his ribs, playing at wild indignation. It doesn't take much longer for Nick to find a much more effective way of shutting him up, though, tilting his chin up to press his mouth against Brandon's.

Kissing on the couch turns out to be a pretty great way to spend the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

"Oh," Brandon says, some time later, after he's managed to mostly disentangle himself from Nick, slumping back into the cushions and trying to get his brain working again. "I forgot your present."

Nick's still pressed right up against him, the two of them somehow managing to fit on the couch, and he's breathing kinda hard too. Brandon has to remind himself not to get distracted again.

"Well, mine was sort of last minute," Nick says. "I wasn't sure if we were, you know. Doing presents."

Brandon thinks, not for the first time this weekend, that they really have to get better at talking about things and not just getting off at the earliest opportunity. That's something else they could have actually talked about before.

"No, I mean I forgot to give it to you this morning," Brandon says. "Uh, so to speak."

"You've been hanging out with Shawzy too much, man," Nick says, but he looks amused anyway.

"Shut up, you know what I mean," Brandon says, and shoves at Nick. Frustratingly, he doesn't even come close to slipping off the couch. Brandon has fuck-all leverage in this position, apparently.

"I know, I know," Nick says, but he does sit up then, swinging his legs down and shuffling along to resettle on the chaise at the end of the sofa.

Brandon gets up after a moment, says, "Just stay here a minute," over his shoulder and goes back to his bedroom.

He'd second-guessed himself a lot over it, especially since there wasn't exactly anyone else he could ask for another opinion, but in the end he'd found time to go in to one of the nicer jewelers on the Magnificent Mile, and picked out a watch that looked like it was Nick's style.

It's not too over-the-top, he doesn't think, and it's not like he hasn't seen guys give their friends similar gifts, too. No one's going to look twice at that. But he's still fighting off the last bit of uncertainty when he comes back into the living room and hands Nick the small, carefully wrapped box.

"It's okay if it's not really you, or whatever," he says, sitting down next to Nick, bumping their shoulders together.

"It's great," Nick says softly, taking it out of the box and putting it on right away. The band looks dark against the pale skin of his wrists. "Thank you."

Brandon just grins and leans into him.

* * *

The rest of the day is quiet; Nick's checked in for his flight in the morning, and Brandon's swinging between being distracted by the next part of their schedule — the Winter Classic is starting to actually feel more immediate and important now, rather than just the reason Brandon's been ducking cameras for the last four weeks — and feeling guiltily like he's probably ready to have a couple hours to himself.

He doesn't want to waste the time Nick's here, but it's been intense and that's new. And if he's being honest with himself, knowing they've got plans for less than a month from now— that makes it easier to let himself be distracted, rather than desperately trying to cram as much as possible into the time they have.

Brandon leaves Nick doing something with his iPad on the couch, and then the third time he catches himself pacing from the hall to the kitchen trying to get his thoughts in order he decides he has to go work this mood off before he says something he shouldn’t.

He goes to change into workout clothes and then sticks his head around the corner into the living room, waiting till he has Nick's attention.

"Hey, Leds? I'm just going to go for a quick run."

"Gym or outside?" Nick takes a skeptical glance out the windows. It's still not snowing or anything like that, but it's getting dark out and Brandon would rather not take his chances with other people's shitty night vision.

"Just in the gym."

"Okay, cool," Nick says, and turns his attention back to the tablet. Brandon's uneasy for a moment that he didn't offer to join him, and then his rational mind kicks back in and points out that Nick's not dumb and Brandon's weird mood isn't exactly subtle. He does appreciate getting a chance to sort himself out.

He's careful not to overdo it when he gets down to the well-appointed gym room his apartment building maintains; runs exactly as long as he's supposed to on an off-day, and adds in his usual weights circuit. It's just the basics, but by the time he's done he's sweating and really feeling the work he's put in. He feels better full stop at that point; like working out has quieted down some of the noise in his head, and it's easier to focus. He wipes his face off with a towel and jogs back up to his apartment, calling out to Nick as he walks in just to let him know he's back.

He snags a shake out of the fridge and drinks the entire pre-mixed bottle straight away, starting to strip out of his sweaty clothes then and there. He can dump everything into the laundry hamper after he showers.

"I probably shouldn't find this hot," Nick says from the doorway to the kitchen, and when Brandon looks up he's carefully looking at Brandon's face and not his half-naked body. Which is sweet, but also kind of ridiculous.

Brandon raises an eyebrow, steps over his shirt and towel in a heap on the tiles and stops within Nick's arms' reach. "And?"

"And yet," Nick agrees.

Brandon's not sure he's got the energy right now to shove Nick back onto the closest flat surface, but he definitely  wants to."You really don't wanna wait till I shower?"

"Your sheets are pretty gross already, Saader," Nick says with a shrug.

He's not exactly wrong, and Brandon's been half-hard since he got back up to the apartment anyway; going back to bed with Nick now sounds like a lot more fun than jerking off in the shower and then jumping him again later anyway.

"Give me just a second," Brandon says, and he grabs a bottle of water, drains most of it, tosses the half-empty bottle back into the sink and then steps into Nick's space, kissing him hard, hands settling at his waist.

Passing out from dehydration in the middle of sex would be pretty fucking embarrassing, but mostly he just wanted to try and get the vaguely chocolate-banana aftertaste out of his mouth. He knows Nick doesn't like that flavor.

If the way Nick's kissing him back is any indication, either he's succeeded or he's found a bulletproof way to stop Nick complaining about his taste in protein powder.

* * *

Brandon thinks he could sleep for a week, sprawled on his back on the bed, even sweatier than he had been to start with, feeling like his limbs are made of lead.

"Fuck," Nick says, from right beside him, eyes closed and arms stretched above his head. "That was good. Right?"

Brandon still feels a little dazed. He's not sure how much blood has actually made it back up to his brain yet, because any sort of complicated thought is getting firmly put in the 'too hard' basket. "It felt good," he says, finally, tongue prodding at the sore spot on the inside of his mouth where he'd bitten his own cheek when Nick got his hands somewhere particularly good.

They're sharing the one pillow that survived Brandon tackling Nick onto the bed and both of them nearly bouncing off ignominiously; heads together, sheets kicked down to the end of the bed. It's probably going to be easier to just strip the bed and start over whenever they actually go to bed to sleep that evening. Brandon has... a lot of laundry to do.

"What should we do for dinner?" Nick asks a little later, slow and lazily unhurried.

"One track mind much?" Brandon says, which is only mildly hypocritical, especially given the fact that now Nick's mentioned it he's realized he is starving again. They've worked off lunch well and truly, that's for sure.

"Just figuring out the game plan," Nick says. Brandon would wonder if he's angling for seconds, but he doesn't think either of them is going to be good for anything but passing out or maybe sacking out on the couch in front of the TV.

"There's frozen meals we can heat up?" Brandon suggests. He doesn't really want to fuss with anything elaborate. Nick'll have to leave fairly early tomorrow morning, they've only got this evening left now, and he's going to be perfectly happy to just eat and maybe crack a beer, watch another movie. Just like old times. Sort of.

"Sounds good," Nick says. "Wake me up when you get out of the shower," he adds, and Brandon thinks he has actually managed to just drop off to sleep again then and there. Meaning Brandon will have to be the first one who actually gets up and moving again.

Or maybe he can just take another short nap first.

He drops his arm over the side of the mattress and manages to grab one of the blankets they'd shoved off, pulling that back over himself and Nick. First things first.

* * *

They pick discretion over getting maybe another hour together in the morning; Brandon kisses Nick goodbye in his hall for a long couple of minutes before sending him downstairs for an Uber to the airport. It doesn't feel like as much of a wrench as saying goodbye on Long Island did; he's not sure if this means they're getting better at it or if it's just easier when he's already home rather than the one who's leaving.

He spends a couple aimless minutes cleaning up in the kitchen; they'd just left everything out after eating the night before, and he pauses for a moment over the half empty bottle of beer on the counter before tipping it down the sink anyway. It's way too early for warm, flat beer, and he's not technically on vacation rules any more.

His phone chimes with an alert not even five minutes later; Nick is bored, and his driver is apparently overly enamored with the sound of his own voice.

"At least I don't have to think of anything to say, I guess?" Nick sends a few moments later, and then, "But also I don't care about construction on the Dan Ryan."

A few minutes after that, "The Bears are gonna be shit this season. In case you somehow hadn't heard."

Brandon's still laughing at him with absolutely no sympathy when Nick sends one more; "Distracting myself by thinking about the face you make when I'm blowing you :)"

Brandon nearly drops his phone.

That... escalated quickly.

"I'm not having phone sex while you're IN A CAB" he texts back.

"Airport now," Nick texts him, "Just figured you should know."

Brandon is _really_ regretting not waking up early enough to jump Nick one last time before letting him leave.

"Call me when you get home," Brandon sends him back, after thinking about it for a minute. Nick doesn't reply, probably busy getting through security or grabbing coffee before boarding.

Brandon puts his phone back in his room to charge and gets on with his day, so it's about an hour later when he checks it again and sees another WhatsApp message.

When it opens it's a picture, Nick grinning goofily into the camera, looking a lot more awake than he had done when Brandon had locked the door behind him. The text with it just says, "Thanks, had a great time."

Brandon pauses for a second, and then saves the picture anyway.

* * *  
Saturday feels like the longest day Brandon can remember in a long time. They're up early to fly out to Denver, they don't get a morning skate and the game looks like it's going to get away from them at first. It's all enough to feel like it could throw them off their game, especially with the altitude to consider. They do a pretty decent job keeping shifts short once again, and Brandon at least doesn't get stuck out long enough to feel like he's skating uphill.

Being the one to get them on the board does feel pretty good though, even after the Avs pull one back a minute later. It lets Brandon keep riding the good mood he woke up in. After Seabs puts them ahead for good on the power-play they more or less run away with it, and the mood on the plane ride home is a lot better than it had been in the morning.

Brandon plays cards with Andy and Bicks for a while, but he's not really feeling it, so he moves to a seat further back and tries to nap. He can usually fall asleep anywhere no problems, but it's just not happening. He shoves the eye mask back up and off his face and sits up, grabbing the pillow from behind his head before it can fall sideways, and hugs it to himself for a minute, turning his head side to side to stretch out his neck.

"Good game today, Saader," Tazer says from the seat beside him, and Brandon starts, because he didn't realize Tazer was even sitting there.

"You too," he says back, sneaking a look at Johnny in his peripheral vision. Tazer's still reclined back in his seat, but his headphones are hanging down around his neck and he looks alarmingly awake.

"Nice pass," Brandon adds, because it had been, even if he'd yelled as much on the ice, too. He's kind of stuck for anything to say after that, though, and he's briefly worried he's going to have to manage some kind of small talk — and normally he can talk to Tazer just fine, he's not a rookie anymore or anything — but he hadn't actually thought about what he'd say if anyone asked about the break. He doesn't want to lie to his teammates either, but. It's difficult.

Apparently either his momentary deer-in-headlights look was more obvious than he'd thought, or Tazer's just being Tazer, ie, kind of a fucking weirdo, because he just nods and then puts his seat back and closes his eyes to nap. Brandon feels like he's gotten away with something, which is just bizarre.

He stares blankly out the window for a while. He hadn't pulled the shade down because sometimes it's kind of cool to look down and see the faint spots of light as they fly over tiny pockets of human inhabitation, and it's nice to see the stars for a change, too; they hardly ever do in Chicago.

That palls sooner rather than later, so he digs his phone out and cues up a chill-out playlist that Mo had sent him a couple years back. He pulls the eye mask back down again and settles back into the seat, and this time when he goes through the familiar relaxation exercises they do the trick. He doesn't have any conscious memory of anything between then and Shawzy prodding him to wake up because they're home.

"Ugggh," Brandon says intelligently, still half asleep, blinking hard in the adjustment to the cabin lights.

"C'mon, Saader," Andy says, obnoxiously wide-awake even then. "Let's go already. You gave me a ride, remember?"

"What was I thinking," Brandon says, but it's a pro forma protest, and he's feeling a lot more awake already. He shakes out his hands, his arms a little stiff from how he'd apparently had a death grip on the pillow even in his sleep, and from the smirk on Shawzy's face he's probably lining up a chirp about that right now.

* * *  
They squeak by Nashville two days later, although it's closer than any of them would've liked. They're off to Washington immediately after the game, another reason it would've been good to get it done in regulation, but it's good to get the win at home, even in the shoot-out.

Brandon gets a row to himself on the plane by dint of drifting to the back of the line while they're boarding and dropping into the aisle seat before anyone else can, though it looks like no one's really paying much attention. It's not that much of a deviation from his normal anyway, he's always been one of the guys who takes some time to himself regularly. Especially with the EPIX cameras in everyone's faces constantly. He checks his phone before takeoff, sees the Caps lost their last game before the Winter Classic, which should have them wound up pretty good.

"Softened them up for you :)" Nick's first message reads, followed by "Have fun Saturday."

"Always do," Brandon sends back, and then turns his phone off to save the battery. He's got some stuff he was going to watch on his tablet anyway.

* * *

The stadium is actually pretty cool; it's not as familiar as Soldier Field was, or PNC Park would've been. Brandon doesn't think he's even been to that many places in the DC area outside of Kettler and the Verizon Center, come to think of it. But the ice looks good, and it's going to be something when it's filled with people.

They hold their practice and the sun's not too bad either, another thing the coaching staff had been worried about. The scrimmage with the Wounded Warriors after practice is fun, and Brandon gets to talk to a couple of the guys he remembers from last year.

The family skate afterward is kind of an exercise for the cameras in a lot of ways, but Brandon's maybe a little salty about that just because his folks couldn't make it this year. Or at least that's what he's telling himself, looking around at his teammates and their wives and girlfriends and kids milling around, having fun on the rink.

He and Shawzy take Madelyn off Sharpy's hands for a couple of circuits, and she's adorable enough that Brandon gets out of his own head for a while. And then he and Chaunette spend a solid five minutes making fun of just how clucky Andy is, because frankly it's practically visible from space just how much he wants a kid. She's not fazed by it, luckily. Shawzy's girl is way too good for him, Brandon tells him, not for the first time.

"I know," Shawzer says. "She's the fucking best." He follows that comment up by skating her over to the boards so he can kiss her without being actively in anyone's way. That’s more considerate than Andy usually would be, and it’s also something Brandon doesn't really need to see right then, actually, so he makes himself scarce. Smitty and his family are over near the bench, so Brandon waves vaguely in the direction of his terrible, horribly adorable friends and then abandons them for people who aren't all obviously coupled up.

Talking to the Smiths gives Brandon a good chance to distract himself for a while, and to be kind of a nerd about music stuff, which he really doesn't get to do all that often these days, so that's actually really good. He stands around by the rink long enough for the PR guys to get the photos they want of all of them in their Winter Classic gear, and wearing the special beanies and all that, but he escapes back to their temporary locker room as quickly as he's allowed. It's cold out, and they're going to be out in it tomorrow for hours, so. He's saving his energy.

They're all meant to have an early night, just a low-key team dinner at the hotel, and Smitty and Bicks grab him and Shawzy and a few of the other younger guys afterward, settling in a corner of the hotel bar.

"Curfew's in like an hour," Brandon reminds them, but he drinks the beer Ben hands him anyway.

"Yeah, and we're just all having one drink," Bicks says reasonably, and Andy adds, "Just like—" and then shuts up fast, like for once in his life he's thought better of what he was about to say.

That's weird, as well as unprecedented. Brandon looks at Smitty to see if he noticed, but he's staring at his own bottle, picking at the corner of the label.


	5. January 2015

Brandon has a room to himself this trip; none of the other guys on entry-level contracts are up right now, so he's got a little more privacy, a little more space. Being in town so much earlier only gives him more opportunity to spread himself around the room, so he makes a mental note to get up a little earlier and make sure he's repacked everything the next morning. He's sick of buying new phone chargers, and he's pretty sure he's on his fifth or sixth one this season. Hotels seem to put the outlets in the worst fucking spots, too, which doesn't help.

He sleeps hard, out for the count from pretty much the moment his head hits the pillow. The beer after dinner probably helped; not caring all that much about staying up to ring in the New Year or whatever also helped.

What doesn't help is that with the room to himself there's no one else there to wake him up early or get him moving the next morning, and Brandon doesn't wake up until his alarm is on it's second cycle. It means a much more rushed morning routine than he prefers, racing through his shower, half-assing his morning shave and jamming everything — he hopes — back into his bag instead of being able to pack a little more intelligently.

They get breakfast and hit the bus and from then on it's a whole lot of hurry-up-and-wait for most of the rest of the day. That's familiar too, at least.

The weather's better in Washington than it had been in Chicago — cold but clear — but that's probably going to be its own problem, and it doesn't take long before they're all hearing that puck drop might be delayed; for both teams' captains to start asking how they'd feel about starting anyway or waiting.

Brandon dabs on eye black, careful not to get it everywhere, and jogs on the spot for a minute, letting his muscles start to loosen up again. He feels like they should be good to go whenever; playing two-touch is enough of a normal start — even with such a huge audience — that he finally feels like he's caught his balance again after feeling off all morning.

The stadium is almost overwhelming, filled with people and red-white-and-blue everything. Brandon tries to just take it all in without getting too distracted; the two points are the most important thing here. They all know that, although Tazer is apparently compelled to say as much when they're back in the dressing room right before they have to head out.

The room is a little rowdier than usual, most of the guys working off their own nerves and feelings about the big stage today by being louder or doubling down on their pre-game routines. Oduya's a quiet presence right by Brandon, which he appreciates; they usually manage to just fist-bump right before heading out and don't say much else. Hammer's visibly tense, which is really not like him; Brandon figures he'll settle when they actually get out there and start skating.

The league does all the pre-game stuff they'd been told to expect, and yeah, it is fun, but Brandon's mostly going over the tape they'd watched of Holtby in his head, thinking about his tendency to drop his glove, reminding himself what to watch for.

All the pomp and circumstance keeps them out there for a while, and Brandon's glad the bench at least is warmer, but then the puck's dropping and they're under way, and everything else falls away. All he has to focus on then is his linemates, his opponents, and watching the puck.

* * *

It doesn’t take long at all to get used to the rink, the way the light’s hitting each end differently, and Brandon has enough trouble picking the puck up a couple of times that he’s just deeply thankful he never stuck it out as a goalie, that’s for sure. It’s probably the first time he’s played a game where they stop to change ends halfway through a period since he was a kid, too. The crowd is much bigger than they’re used to, sure, but it keeps throwing Brandon off a little when he looks up along the glass and doesn’t see the blur of people sitting, standing, cheering. They’re still loud, but it feels slightlyremoved; it’s harder to judge.

Fehr’s goal is not an ideal start, but they’ve come back from worse before, Brandon’s not too worried. The second goal a few minutes later is more frustrating, but Sharpy scoring on the power-play feels like they’re righting the ship, though despite a flurry of chances to close out the first, they can’t quite draw it any closer.

Q doesn’t need to say anything in the locker room, and it’s just Seabs and Duncs who both speak up; remind them all to focus, they’ve got this, the same thing any one of them will say on any other day. Brandon taps his palms over his knees in tune with whatever song it is stuck in his head, just the melody of the first verse on repeat, checks the tape on his socks and on his stick, and does his best to rehydrate. The whole golf-cart back to the actual ice surface thing feels a little silly, even though this is about the fourth time they’ve done it now.

They’re on their second or third shift when it looks like the momentum’s starting to shift in their favor. Hossa picks up the puck, flips it over to Tazer and Brandon’s racing hard to the net, gets just enough of a step around the backchecker to get his stick on Tazer’s pass, and neat as anything the puck tucks right behind Holtby’s skate and into the back of the net; they’ve tied it. Brandon whoops, yells something he hopes his mom can’t lip-read, and throws himself at Tazer and Hossa as they come crashing in.

That’s about the last part of the game that feels like it goes right, though. The power-play stutters and runs down without giving them anything, they waste a 5-on-3 — and hear about that from Q in the second intermission, that’s for sure — and the score’s still stuck on 2-2 with a minute left. Thirty seconds. And then Tazer gets sent to the box on a weak call, and they’ve just got to kill about seventy seconds of a Caps power-play to get out of this with at least one point.

The problem with that, of course, is that it’s the Washington Capitals and their consistently top of the league power-play. Ovechkin gets the puck, and Brandon doesn’t think, just reacts; he’s seen how this story ends half a hundred times; with the puck behind the opposition’s goalie. ‘Not today’, he thinks, and dives to try and take away the puck.

Ovechkin’s stick breaks, and Brandon thinks, “Yes,” for a moment, and then “Oh, _fuck_ ,” because not only is the official’s arm up for the delayed call, Brouwer’s somehow fished the puck out and thrown it right past Crow to give the Caps the lead.

There’s 13 seconds left on the clock when Brandon gets to the box, just barely manages not to slam his stick in frustration. He leans forward on the bench, trying to will the puck behind Holtby as they drop it at center ice again, but despite Tazer practically performing miracles out there, the buzzer sounds, and the Caps have won the Winter Classic.

Frankly, Brandon’s not that impressed with 2015 so far.

* * *

They don’t have a whole lot of time to stew over the Winter Classic, either; the schedule’s heating up ahead of the All-Star break, so they stick to off-ice and video review for the most part. They’re going to be spending enough time on the ice in the first half of January as it is, five games in eight days, and a back-to-back of road games in the middle of that.

The Hawks’ first home game of 2015 is, technically, a bounce-back win, but it’s one they know they’re lucky to have got away with; never more than one goal difference in the game until Sharpy wins it for them in OT. Brandon picks up his 10th goal in the first, ties it at 1-1, but it seems like every time they’re about to pull away the Stars manage to put another goal in to restore the lead; it’s great to get the win but frustrating to have to go to OT to get the points.

Brandon doesn’t slam his stick into the boards after the next game, but he wants to, badly. Being shut out at home is bad enough; being shut out after putting fucking fifty plus shots on net just feels wrong. They’d been so close, too, and Brandon’s going to be reliving the ping as the puck went off the post on his first shift in the third for a while. Getting stiffed by intent to blow with just minutes left feels like the inevitable cherry on top, and Brandon spends a good twenty minutes in the shower afterward wondering what a third way to just miss scoring would be; maybe if he’d also missed an open net they could call that the fuck-up hat trick.

By the time he gets home, it’s very little consolation to find that Nick has also had a shitty night.

“Fuck the Avs,” Brandon messages him, too fucked off to bother with a more mature analysis of their day. Fifty four shots, fuck. _Fuck._

“Ouch,” Nick messages him back, almost right away, and Brandon blinks, and then remembers, right, Pacific time.

“This sucks,” Brandon starts to reply, and then wonders if that sounds like he’s angling to start something. He thinks about it for a moment and then decides that if Nick takes it that way, he’ll just go with it. Getting off wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world, even if Nick doesn’t want to help him out with that.

Reassuringly, the answering text bubble pops up again a few seconds later. “Blocked a shot in the second. Wish you were here.” Brandon’s not entirely sure that makes sense, but he’s had a long day, he’s not at his best. His phone vibrates with another message a couple of seconds later, though. “Could do with a massage.” Nick says, and there’s a row of disturbingly animated sad faces after that. Brandon should maybe spend some down time finding a less creepy emoji keyboard soon, he’s sure they don’t look like that on his computer.

“I could take your mind off it,” he replies, before he can second-guess himself.

“Rain-check?” Nick sends back, and Brandon huffs out a breath, cranky all over again, and then gets annoyed with himself for being annoyed; Nick’s allowed to not be in the mood, for fuckssake.

“Sure,” Brandon says, trying not to let any of his frustration go through in words, or in their absence. “Any time.”

Nick sends him another sad face, and then, “Let’s just say that was closer than I’m comfortable with to being Sami Salo” and Brandon blinks, and then remembers; they’d all joked about it in Saginaw, but a couple of the guys had also quietly decided that maybe a brand new jock wasn’t the worst investment to make.

“Fuck,” Brandon says. “That sucks, Leds.”

“Mostly nailed me in the thigh,” Nick replies, and Brandon imagines that ‘mostly’ and shudders.

“You’ll have to check everything’s still in working order in Mexico,” Nick adds a few seconds later, and Brandon grins, some of his good cheer restored. It feels like it’s been much longer than a week — or near enough — since Nick was here, warm and present; they’ve only got to wait another couple of weeks and then Brandon can touch him as much as he likes. “It’s gonna bruise like fuck.”

Brandon imagines that, and then shudders again. He probably shouldn’t ask Nick to send him pics when the bruise comes up. He sort of wants to, though.

“Yeah, I think I can manage that,” he replies eventually. “Talk to you later?”

“Night Saader,” Nick sends back, without pausing for more innuendo first.

Brandon tries to tell himself he’s not disappointed, but after he says goodnight himself and then crawls into bed, he still feels like their conversation’s kind of unfinished. He puts it out of his mind, flips the lights off and then tries jerking off anyway, but he’s not really feeling it, which— well, maybe that’s the third point in his complete failure to score hat trick, then. He sighs, punches his pillow into a more comfortable shape, and then rolls onto his side and tells himself to go to sleep already.

* * *

The best thing Brandon can say for their game at Xcel is that they finally score first; giving up the first goal has been enough of a theme lately that they’re almost as sick of answering questions about it as they are of seeing it happen. The best thing for the Hawks is that Crow is dialed in again, looking like he had before he’d been injured, and he pretty much steals the game for them. Crawford keeps them in it while Bicks goes on a tear and picks up another two goals, even if one of them was an empty netter. Brandon skates over to the net when the buzzer sounds, waiting patiently, and he’s not the only guy in line telling Crow he owes him a steak dinner.

It’s the first half of another back-to-back, so it’s another race through the locker room, trying to deal with the media as quickly as they can — although at least they don’t have to give the ‘gotta do better’ spiel this time — and changing and getting packed up again. Edmonton means they have to clear customs, too, so it’s going to be another damn late night.

Brandon manages to time his nap on the plane perfectly; he’s awake enough by the time they land, but he drops right back off to sleep again as soon as he gets into the hotel room. It may even be the exact same room he had on the Circus trip; it’s not like he can ever remember a room number for more than a day or two. The terrible watercolor hanging beside the bed is definitely the same.

He feels pretty good when he wakes up properly, catches himself humming as they walk into Rexall and make their way to the locker room, and he keeps feeling good when they skate out for warm-ups and then for the game proper.

It seems almost inevitable when he picks up Hossa’s rebound on a rush into the offensive zone and fires it past Scrivens, putting the Hawks on the board first again. It’s not ideal when they give up first the tying goal and then a second, but he gets another 2-on-1 with Hoss in the second, and that ends the same way as the first; game tied. And then it all goes to hell; the Hawks just missing on passes they’d usually make, falling down on their defensive coverage, and by the end of the evening it’s in the books; another lopsided Chicago loss in Alberta.

Brandon ends up talking to the beats afterward, trying to push dripping hair back out of his eyes; he’d raced through his shower and hadn’t managed to dry off all that well. He’s got better by now at judging what to say in these situations; the script hasn’t exactly changed all that much since he was with the Spirit, but now there’s a lot more people to see if you trip over your words or say something stupid. He’s careful as he talks about the loss; the Oilers out-worked them and the Hawks needed to play better, nothing much else to say. And yes, he’s pleased to get two goals, yeah, the hat trick would’ve been nice, no he wasn’t thinking about that out there.

That’s mostly true; he’d thought about it going into the third, looking at the deficit, just one goal behind. Maybe next time, he thinks, and does his best to put it out of his mind.

* * *

At least the short turnaround means they’ve got a chance to get the taste of that loss out of their mouths fast; they’re back in Chicago so fast that it makes the past three days feel somewhat unreal. There’s not a lot of chance to recover, though; just one day between the Oilers game and seeing the Wild again at the UC.

If Brandon remembers the schedule correctly — which is certainly not a given at this point in the season — this is probably the worst stretch they’ve got, timing-wise. There’s another stretch in February, he thinks, where they’ll have some of the same problems, but at least most of those games will be at home, which helps. But no matter when in the season it is, five games in eight days is tough on body and mind, and Brandon’s probably not alone in looking forward to their next break.

He picks up an assist early in the game, and it’s like this time everything they couldn’t get right against the Oilers is actually working; they’re up by two at the end of the first, up by four at the end of the second, and if the third period isn’t quite so symmetrical then at least it’s not anything like some of their bad patches have been like lately; no major lapses or colossal fuck-ups, and Q is very obviously happier with this effort. He gets their attention in the locker room as soon as they’ve made their way back into the locker room — before anyone can get the stereo going — and tells them that they’re off entirely until Wednesday, no practices, and Brandon is definitely among the majority who drop whatever sweat-soaked equipment they’re in the middle of stripping out of to cheer appreciatively. Duncs leans in to his stall for a fist-bump, and then claps him on the shoulder to say “Good game, Saader.”

“You too, Duncs,” Brandon says, grinning broadly as he tugs his elbow pads off and drops them into the back of the bench.

“You’re coming out to Joe’s day after tomorrow, right?” Duncs asks.

Brandon blinks for a second and then remembers. “Oh, your thing, yeah, definitely.”

“Great,” Duncs says, and then moves on to the opposite side of the room to check in with Crawford.

* * *

When Brandon had been a kid and pictured making the NHL, he'd always thought about a lot of hard training, and obviously he'd imagined getting to play, scoring against the goalies he'd grown up watching, and all that kind of thing. He'd figured that signing autographs was a thing that would probably happen sometimes, too; but he definitely hadn't spent a lot of time imagining all the different types of PR things they actually wind up doing.

It's obviously not the hardest thing to do, or the worst, and it's usually less embarrassing than some of the stuff they've had to do for Blackhawks TV — Brandon's still kind of pretending the IceHogs Christmas video doesn't exist and it would be nice if everyone else he knows would let him have that illusion — but it's still— it's not always what he's in the mood for.

He tends to feel better about these kinds of things when he's actually there and in the moment, rather than thinking about them beforehand. It's always fun to talk to fans about hockey, and most people are easy to talk to. Kids are the easiest because they're all enthusiasm and very little bullshit, but heading along to Duncs' charity concert is very clearly going to be a 21-and-over affair. Well, aside from Teuvo, probably.

It's not totally Brandon's scene music-wise, but they're not a bad band, and it's easy enough to enjoy, especially after he's had a drink or two. And the important thing is to be there and circulating and signing peoples' jerseys and all that. He only has to try to figure out a graceful escape from one or two extremely insistent people who either want to ask him out or to tell him what he should be doing differently on the power-play. It's on the low end for an event with alcohol, at any rate.

He hangs out in the green room area with Crow and Smitty for a while, in a doomed attempt at ducking Adam who's armed with his phone camera and seeming to be even more committed than usual to trying to get candid shots of everyone. Smitty hams it up for him, and Brandon just tries to make sure he's not making a weird face when it's his turn. The Keith Relief ball cap hides a lot, at least.

"Having fun?" Crow asks him, before they go back out to circulate again.

"Yeah," Brandon says slowly, because he's not _not_ having fun. "And hey, it's a good cause, right?"

"Yep," Crow says, and clinks the neck of his beer bottle against Brandon's, "Cheers, eh?" and then he vanishes off into the crowd. Brandon's been enjoying spending a bit more time with him this year; he's not really any more or less weird than most of the goalies Brandon's known.

That's not quite the same thing as not weird, though, and he's definitely in some kind of mood tonight. Brandon's not going to worry about it unless he has to.

"Free drinks at least," Shawzy says, clearly coming in on the end of the conversation.

"Like you don't love this kind of thing," Smitty says, drifting back over as well, and Brandon has to admit, he agrees with him.

"And you won't get stuck signing so many things your wrist goes numb here, at least," Shawzy points out, and then looks like he's about to tack something really filthy on the end of that, so Brandon just agrees hurriedly, and heads back into the crowd.

He mingles for a while, and then works his way back to a couple of the women from the front office and just talks to them for a while; that's easy and he knows them well enough to actually hold a conversation, plus it helps that there's absolutely no expectation of anything else. He doesn't want to lead anyone on by accident.

"Bicks' thing was really cool," he finds himself telling Leah, who hadn't been involved with that set-up at all. "The dogs were all so cute, I think most of them got adopted already. I know half the guys wanted to keep them, too."

Brandon had been tempted; he misses having a dog, but he knows he wouldn't be able to take care of one properly right now, he's away too often and it wouldn't be fair. But it was good to get to spend a couple hours playing with them for the calendar photo shoot. At least Shawzy has given him a pretty-much open invitation to walk Bails and Charman any time, although that might be more to get him out of having to pick up after them than out of any especial concern for Brandon’s welfare.

Leah tells him about some of the ideas the promotional team have coming up for later in the season, and that segues into talking about the Bulls for a while; Brandon's casually following them but she's way more informed than he is, so he's out of his depth pretty quickly there. He signs a few more jerseys and chats with the fans who've come up to him, and before long it's close to midnight and things are wrapping up.

It is fun, it's just work, too, and he's tired by the end of the night, tired enough that he drops straight into bed when he gets home, doesn't bother to shower or do more than strip down and curl up under his blankets.

* * *

Brandon's planned since they got the schedule to see his family after the game against the Penguins, and the team are fine with him skipping the charter back to Chicago since everyone's about to peel off in various directions for the break anyway. Well, other than the guys going to Columbus, that is.

He's not even the only one who's packed for more than an overnight and is just leaving from Pittsburgh International; the Hawks charter is going to be close to half empty on the way back to Chicago.

Unsurprisingly, he'd had to use his entire allocation - and begged a few tickets off other guys - to get tickets for all the friends and family that could actually make it to the game, but it’s more than worth it for how happy it makes his mom and dad. His dad at least gets to Chicago home games a bit more often in the regular season, but it's still special, playing this close to home.

His mom hugs him for a good five minutes when he manages to escape the dressing room and comes out to find them, waiting in a hall outside with a few other guys’ friends and family. He's more than ready to eat again as soon as they can retrieve their car from the lot, equal parts tired and amped up after a long, hard game that went past regulation.

They stop for a meal not far from the arena, because this isn't his parents first rodeo, either. He manages to put away an amount of food that clearly impresses the waiter who'd initially looked skeptical at his order, but no one else even blinks; his mom and dad have been feeding him and George both since they were pee-wees.

It takes him about ten minutes to inhale enough food that he actually feels relatively human again, and able to actually hold a conversation. His mom hides a smile behind her hand and passes him another glass of water, telling him he'd played well.

"So how long do we have you for?" she asks, because he'd been kind of vague when they'd planned this.

"Just the day," he says, "I'm flying to Cancun to meet, uh, Nick."

They've been so careful to be discreet, and he's very aware that they're in public right now, too, but he'd had the phrase "to meet some friends" all cued up and ready to go, but apparently his subconscious mind had different ideas. He knows his tone is giving away everything that his words aren't, especially to people who know him, and if he wasn't already sure of that, the way his dad carefully puts his glass down on the table and eyes him consideringly would tell him he was hiding precisely nothing.

It's his mom who speaks again, though, and she chooses her words carefully, also very obviously remembering that they're in public and people might be paying more attention to him now. "This is- your friend you were telling us about?"

"Yeah," Brandon says, and he knows there's a really dumb grin on his face. Fuck, he gets to see Nick again in like a day.

"We'd like to meet him again this summer," she says. "Properly."

"Have fun and be careful, hrm?" his dad adds, and Brandon feels his face go a dull red and his ears burn when George echoes "Really careful," with deliberate emphasis and kicks his ankle under the table.

"Hey, watch it," Brandon says, in a feeble attempt to regain some of the high ground here. "Trying to put me on IR?"

"Oh please," George says, snorting dismissively, but he slides his leftover dessert to Brandon as well, so no harm no foul, Brandon figures. And tries to think of a way to avoid having anyone bring up his sex life around his parents again any time soon.

* * *

It's not like Brandon actually thinks Nick is going to, like, stand him up or whatever, but his flight gets in an hour before the one from New York, and it's not the most pleasant hour of his life, put it that way. He's too on edge to sit down anywhere and relax, so instead he winds up leaning against the wall by the baggage carousel, fidgeting with his phone.

Despite being way too awake for how early he'd had to get up, and obsessively watching the stream of people coming through to grab their bags, most of them pretty clearly tourists already in vacation mode, he still doesn't actually see Nick first.

"Hey," he hears, and then Nick's right there, three feet away, dropping his backpack at his feet and grinning helplessly at him. He looks a little tired, too, but even though it's only been like three weeks he's still the best thing Brandon's seen in a while.

"Hi," Brandon says, and he's grinning back just as wide. There's an awkward moment while they both try to figure out exactly what they're doing; Brandon can't exactly jump him in public, much as he might want to.

"You look good," Brandon says quietly as he moves in, grabs Nick in for a quick hug, and his hands aren't anywhere outrageous but they're both dressed for the weather and Brandon can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin t-shirt.

"You too," Nick says, ducking his face into Brandon's shoulder for a moment before stepping back. "You got your stuff already, yeah? I didn't check anything."

Brandon eyes the backpack and coat hanging over it, and raises an eyebrow in query.

"Pretty sure I won't need anything else this weekend," Nick says, and oh, yeah, he's smirking, just a little, and only if you know him well enough to pick it up, which Brandon does, and oh, yeah, that bodes well. This is going to be a fun vacation.

* * *

It doesn't take long to get to their hotel and check in, and Brandon dumps his bag on one of the beds before walking over to the balcony, opening the sliding door and stepping outside to look out over the resort and the beach. It's warm but not stiflingly hot, and he can already feel some of the tension he's been trying to ignore for weeks sliding away.

"Good view," Nick says from behind him - right behind him, actually, and he steps closer so that he's pressed up against Brandon's back, hooking his chin over Brandon's shoulder and hands settling at his waist.

The beach _is_ pretty nice, but, "That's a terrible line," Brandon says, because sometimes Nick is really predictable. "I can't believe you ever get laid."

"I guess I wouldn't if my boyfriend wasn't such a sucker for bad come-ons," Nick says and Brandon can feel him grinning. That makes something warm kindle in Brandon's chest and he's abruptly impatient with this slow tease, flirting for the sake of it when they're finally back in the same place for a change.

"Hey, so which bed do you want?" Brandon asks, turning inside the circle of Nick's arms, quirking an eyebrow.

"Uh, I don't care?" Nick replies, looking a little confused.

Brandon looks over Nick's shoulder at the two queen-sized beds, made up with colorful sheets and a ton of pillows.

"We'll probably want to sleep in the one closer to the AC," he says after a contemplative moment. Nick makes an 'and...?' face at him, clearly not getting why this is under discussion.

"It's just, " Brandon says a moment later, walking Nick backwards towards the other, closer bed, "I want to fucking— god, I want to do so many things to you right now."

Nick looks briefly illuminated, and then just really fucking turned on. "Oh, and the other bed is the one we're not fucking up?"

"Yup," Brandon says, hands moving to start unbuttoning Nick's jeans. Nick gets with the program and yanks his own shirt off, and then goes for Brandon's.

"We could just—" there's a pause while Nick has to let go of Brandon long enough step out of his jeans, kicking them aside. "Uh, we could just take the covers off first?"

"Too slow," Brandon says, almost on autopilot, looking Nick up and down and hoping it's completely obvious just how much he likes what he sees. "And even if we're careful it's messy."

"Pretty sure we can afford the extra laundry service, " Nick says reasonably.

"Stop being logical and— yeah, that, that's good," Brandon stumbles over his words, starting to find it harder to stay coherent as Nick gets his hands back on his bare skin.

"Okay, okay, fuck, let's just—" Brandon shoves him, or Nick tugs at his shoulders, but regardless of whoever starts it they end up tumbling down onto the bed together. The cotton sheet is cool and smooth against the backs of Brandon's hands when he gets them under Nick's back and around the back of his head, holding his face steady for a kiss, sinking into it and into him as they fit themselves together, legs tangled and bodies aligned.

"Hey," Brandon says, half-laughing, breathless, grinding down against Nick's body, fuck, this feels so good. "You're so good, this is great— Leds, fuck."

"I thought about this last time we were here," Nick admits, fitting the words in between kisses, hand tracing along the length of Brandon's spine, getting a solid handful of his ass and making Brandon shudder on top of him. "I really wanted it, to kiss you, do any of this."

"Yeah," Brandon says softly, pulling away so that he's kind of talking into Nick's collarbone. "I thought— I wanted you to want that. But it was too—" and there they are, right back up against the things they haven't really talked about even now, and Brandon lets his words trail off.

Nick doesn't call him on it either, just digs his fingertips into the muscle of Brandon's ass and asks, "You still want it?"

"Yeah," Brandon says, "Yes, _please_."

They thoroughly mess up the bed closest to the balcony, and do the same to each other, more or less. As nice as it is to have Nick warm and solid underneath him, it is also — Brandon comes to realize about the time that his higher brain functions come back — way too fucking hot for that. They really should have, like. Turned the AC on before doing anything.

"Ugh," Brandon says, rolling off Nick and enjoying the momentary coolness of the sheets against his back before they start to feel like they're sticking to him too. He's sweaty everywhere their bodies had been touching, and since they'd been more invested in getting each other off as fast as possible than in anything else, kind of covered in jizz, too. They're going to have to leave such a huge tip for housekeeping.

"Was it good for you too?" Nick says, deadpan, and Brandon hasn't recovered enough to sit up or look at him properly, but he's grinning and kind of pink, and his hair is dark with sweat. Brandon wants a nap and maybe a burger or a beer, or something, but also right now he wants to just roll back over and mess Nick up all over again. His dick tries nobly to get on board with that plan, but biology is apparently holding a trump card.

"Nap?" Brandon asks him, turning his head on the pillow they're apparently sharing. He's okay with that turning into kind of a habit.

"We should move first. And crank the air con." Brandon can see the logic in what Nick's suggesting, but it's definitely going to take him a couple of minutes to get there.

"Or maybe shower?" Nick continues, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his own hip and then — with a shrug — wiping it off on the sheet beside him.

"We're so gross," Brandon agrees, and then closes his eyes. Just for a minute.

"You're so useless after you come," Nick says, and it's fond, but that's also not going to get Brandon to move either. Five more minutes, maybe.

He jumps a little when Nick reaches over and lightly slaps a hand over his abs, more from the sound than the actual impact. "Come on," Nick says, "Get up, B. Shower and we can get lunch. And maybe swim?"

"You first," Brandon says, still not bothering to open his eyes. Nick owes him from last time. It's not Brandon's fault if he's taking this one right out of Nick's playbook.

"Lazy," Nick says, and then Brandon feels the mattress move as he gets up, and then an electronic click before the reassuring hum of modern climate control fills the room. It kicks in fast, and Brandon can feel his skin break out in goosebumps in the cold, a pleasant contrast. The shower starts in the bathroom, and Brandon's feeling a lot more awake now, especially when he considers the mental image of Nick in there cleaning up. He's pretty awake now, actually. Maybe he'll join him.

* * *

They find vaguely presentable clothes — resort casual, at least — and leave the room to get lunch. Or maybe it technically counts as brunch? Brandon’s not totally sure, and the time change is throwing him off, but he's definitely hungry. They even hit the pool in the afternoon; there's a swim-up bar and it would frankly be wrong to not take advantage of that. There's a ton of people around, other guys around their age and women too, most of them drinking and flirting with each other, and Brandon remembers from last time that it's going to get busier and even louder when the sun goes down.

They make conversation with a few of the other guys in the pool, and get invited to play beach volleyball later by a couple of guys who pretty obviously noted that they were both in good shape and were looking for a couple of ringers. Brandon's not entirely sure but he thinks they think they're college soccer players or something. It's kind of funny, and the guys seem nice and all, so Brandon exchanges a look with Nick and they agree to show up. They'll probably get a few beers out of it, and it's not like anyone's going to care enough to put too much effort in. Brandon isn’t always over-competitive, no matter what his brother might say.

Mostly, though, they float around in the pool and Brandon chirps Nick about remembering to use sunscreen and appreciates how he looks in his trunks. They're anonymous enough that he feels pretty safe in not even faking interest in anyone else, even though there are a ton of people — guys and girls — who would also merit Boller's 'total smokeshow' label.

Brandon takes possession of a sun lounger and stretches out to dry off, idly people-watching, though his gaze gets drawn back to Nick like clockwork. It doesn't take much longer for Nick to haul himself out of the pool — Brandon watches his arms appreciatively — and a couple seconds later he's standing over Brandon, blocking the sun and dripping on him.

"Shove over, Saader" Nick says, and okay, it's big enough for two, so Brandon does, even though he grumbles about Nick being cold and damp pressed against him like that.

"I'll make it up to you later," Nick says, and Brandon grins again and relaxes.

They stay out in the sun till they're both starting to feel sleepy — even when it's not a game day Brandon's body is basically programmed to plan for afternoon naps — and it doesn't take much discussion at all for them to decide to just go back to their room.

Nick crowds him against the wall when the door closes behind them, hands firm at Brandon's waist and mouth warm against his. He tastes like beer and salt and his skin is a little chemical-y from the pool, and Brandon lets himself be manhandled, just pleasantly tired and drunk enough to float on the sensation.

Nick pulls away eventually and tugs Brandon towards the bed — the one that's still neatly made and unrumpled. Brandon makes a tiny sound in the back of his throat, the smallest protest, but he's pretty sure even if they tried to have sex he'd fall asleep, like, five minutes in, so he goes with it anyway and fits himself beside Nick on top of the sheets.

"Pick that up again after a nap?" Nick asks, and Brandon yawns, mumbles "Yeah," and tucks his face up against Nick's shoulder, slinging an arm over his hip.

"I’m glad we’re doing this," Nick says quietly, and Brandon can feel the words vibrating through his rib cage. "Thanks for— thanks."

"You had a good idea," Brandon says, and then pats Nick's stomach as punctuation. "Sleep now, though."

"Yeah, yeah," Nick says, his breathing slowing already. "Whatever you like."

* * *

Brandon's the first one to wake up, for a change, and he enjoys the sensation of not having anywhere he has to be, or anything to do, other than lie there and relax. Or, well, ogle Nick, because Brandon has eyes and Nick's right there, still tucked up against him although the sheet has slipped down to about waist height. Brandon's not sure if it was him or Nick who'd kicked it down, they're both prone to doing that kind of thing in their sleep, and Brandon knows he runs hot more often than not.

He shifts just enough to hook his ankle over Nick's, anchoring himself in place, shuffling a little so his head is more comfortable on the pillow and his arm isn't bending funny where he's still got it at Nick's waist.

Nick's skin feels a little warm, they had got a bit of sun, though he doesn't feel — or look, as Brandon cracks an eye open again and raises his head to look down — burned. Brandon tans easily, so he's not real worried, especially since he thinks they both spend half their summers out on the water.

He'd like to do that together this summer, maybe, hopefully, but they're going to have to actually talk about things to get to that point, not just keep calling and texting and sending flirty WhatsApps and falling into bed together whenever they can. Brandon knows he's young, and all, and the distance is— it has to be a factor. But he definitely wants to keep _trying_.

Brandon knows himself well enough to know that he could totally go back to sleep if he let himself, but they should get moving again soon, and Nick'll probably wake up soon anyway, so instead he just wriggles closer, idly considering their evening plans.

Nick makes a grumbling little noise that Brandon will not admit he finds cute, although he totally does, and rolls over to face Brandon. Brandon has to take a moment to rearrange his hands, but one of them naturally lands on Nick's ass which, well, bonus.

"Hey," Brandon says softly.

Nick grumbles again and tries to bury his head under the pillow.

"Wow," Brandon says, "you really are tired."

Nick makes another sound that doesn't really bear much relationship to English, but that Brandon translates as something like 'duh'. They haven't, admittedly, had a whole lot of time to spend actually in bed together, but Brandon's been around Nick enough before they were sleeping together to know that this isn't usually how he rolls.

He frees one hand to finger-comb through the back of Nick's hair, rubbing gently at his scalp with his fingertips and smoothing the longer strands behind his ears and off the back of his neck. Nick makes a more approving sound and Brandon can feel the way his whole body gets slightly more relaxed, only then realizing how tense he actually had felt.

"You want some water?" he says a few minutes later, after he's graduated to running his hand lightly along Nick's spine, smoothly tracing the line from his nape to the tiny indentation right above his ass and back up again.

"Yeah, please," Nick says eventually, and he even surfaces from under the pillow when Brandon comes back to the bed with a mostly-full glass of water, sitting up carefully to take and it and only half-opening his eyes.

Brandon squints at him and then sighs. "I think you have sunstroke?"

Nick makes a face. "I'm just tired, Saader."

"Not nauseated?" Brandon is just checking, pulling from hazy memories of getting a mild case himself as a kid.

"Nope," Nick says, and he's looking a lot better after the water, and some extra time to wake himself up, so Brandon nods slowly. He'll keep an eye on him anyway. "Just— it's been a long week. Month. You know. Lotta minutes."

"Yeah," Brandon says, looking away for a moment.

"Hey, come on, vacation," Nick says, and leans in to knock his shoulder against Brandon's. "Time to have fun again?"

"Absolutely," Brandon says, and he has the best of intentions of saying something else — or of making Nick lie down a little longer, or maybe drink more water, but then Nick shuffles sideways on the bed and gets his hands onto Brandon's face, slides his palms over the curve of his jaw, fingers dragging on the stubble he hadn't bothered to shave that morning and tugs him closer for a kiss, and yeah, that's always going to distract him. They kiss slow and sloppy for a few long minutes, and then without Brandon being entirely sure how it happens, he's on his back with Nick's knees either side of his hips, pressing him down into the bed while the kiss gets dirtier and dirtier. Nick's hard on top of him, and Brandon can't help himself, tries to press up into him, against him, desperate for some friction.

"In a minute," Nick promises, hands warm on Brandon's sides, and god, why did they both leave shorts on to sleep in, Brandon wonders; it's not like it's anything he hasn't seen before and he's so personally fucking offended by the two thin layers of fabric separating him from Nick.

"Seriously, gimme a second," Nick mumbles, sucking a hickey into the side of Brandon's throat, and it feels too good to complain, even when Nick lets go of him and sits up, rolling away from Brandon just long enough to shuck his own shorts before climbing back on top of him.

"Okay, now's good," Nick says, crawling back on top of him, sitting up just long enough to rub the heel of his palm over Brandon's dick for a minute or two, skin warm and the fabric of his shorts dragging in the best-worst possible way.

It's Brandon's turn to moan inarticulately then, and he can't stop himself from bucking up harder, trying to get more pressure. Nick moves on top of him again, letting his cock push up against Brandon's abs, and then he shifts so he’s holding himself up on his elbows while he steadily rubs off against Brandon, breathing hot into the curve of his neck, giving Brandon almost but not-quite-enough pressure on his own dick to get him close. Nick’s even closer, and it’s obvious to Brandon just how much this is working for him; he can see and feel the lines of tension in his body where his muscles are tight, straining, the way his focus has narrowed down to just this. Brandon gets his hands back on Nick’s ass, thumbs digging into the muscle, making all kinds of embarrassing noises in encouragement, echoing the way Nick’s muttering all kinds of nonsense into Brandon’s ear. Nick’s panting audibly, breathing hard and fast, and that turns into a low whine in the back of his throat as he gives a last few thrusts against Brandon's skin before smearing come all over both of them as his arms give out and his whole weight ends up resting on Brandon.

That was, like. Ridiculously hot, actually, Brandon thinks, even though he's now ten times more desperate and frustrated as hell. He squirms under Nick, who obligingly gets a hand between them again to grope Brandon through his shorts, and apparently that's all it takes when he's this turned on, because he hasn't even got skin-to-skin contact before Brandon's coming hard, biting his own lip.

"Fuck," Brandon says a few moments later, once he's marshaled a couple of willing brain cells back together again.

"Told you I felt fine," Nick says, and Brandon smacks him lightly over his ribcage, and then prods him more pointedly.

"You feel like you weigh three hundred pounds. It's too hot for this, get off me already."

Nick moves fast, rolling onto the bed beside Brandon again, and he also looks a little guilty, so Brandon takes pity on him and adds, "Uh, thanks, though. That was really—"

"Really hot," Nick finishes his sentence, and guilty has morphed into what Brandon's fairly sure is 'smug', which he'll give him. It's a good look on him, and it's not like he doesn't deserve it.

"Really fucking hot," Brandon agrees. "Though I'm not sure why I'm the only one who isn't naked."

Nick just shrugs, and then grins angelically. "I figured you had stuff to change into. I only brought one pair of shorts."

"Ahh." Brandon says, considering. "...challenge accepted."

* * *

They hit the shower again after that, taking turns, although Brandon perches on the sink to talk to Nick while he showers; it's not like they have to fake some kind of bro code of not looking any more. It's kind of nice, pitching his voice so Nick can hear him clearly over the water on tile noise, and just talking about the kinds of dumb, random stuff that they always have; it's so good to not feel like they have to catch up on everything important in five minutes flat for once.

Brandon digs another set of trunks out of his bag — if they're playing volleyball he's working on the assumption that sand is gonna get everywhere, so whatever — and a shirt, then flops onto the bed to watch Leds finish getting ready, too. It's not exactly ogling, but hey, he's gonna take what he can get. Nick makes a face at him but doesn't hurry at all, so Brandon figures it's fine.

They get halfway back to the pool area before Brandon realizes his room key is probably still in the pocket of his other shorts, but Nick just pulls his key from the back pocket of his, and adds, "I brought my wallet, too," and okay, yeah, Brandon had also failed to pick up anything other than, like, his phone.

"Thanks," he says, and bumps shoulders with Nick.

"Hey, I know you," Nick says, grinning back at him, and oh, okay, that's— Brandon wasn't prepared for how that would feel. He stumbles a little, and Nick looks concerned, like he's worried he's said something wrong, but Brandon doesn't have the words for it right now, knows he's going to have to think it through on his own later, so he pastes a smile back on, and leans into Nick. They're having fun right now, everything else can just— wait.

* * *

They kick some ass at volleyball, and wind up covered in sand by the end of their game. So maybe they both took it a little more seriously than they necessarily had to, but it had been fun. And they’d won, too, which meant Ryan and Cal — the guys who’d rounded them up for their team — spent the whole time they’d hung around drinking the promised beers afterward trying to recruit them for a rematch later in the week. Brandon had begged off at first, but they’d wound up promising if they weren’t doing anything else that they’d come back down tomorrow at least.

"Third shower?" Nick says, laughing, as they’re about to leave, because apparently that’s a fucking constant even when they’re not playing, and then Nick laughs even harder after Brandon turns to say goodbye to their temporary teammates, because apparently he's covered in sand from shoulders to knees on one side.

"We could go eat first?" Brandon suggests. "They seem pretty laid back in most of the places by the beach."

"Sure," Nick says, and then he and Brandon find a slightly grassy area just off the beach and spend five minutes brushing dry sand off each other. Brandon only cops a little bit of a feel while he's doing so, hands lingering on Nick's back, tossing up whether or not to actually just grab his ass in public. He doesn't, in the end, but when Nick turns and says, "Ready for me to do you?" he's grinning broadly, double entendre clearly totally intended.

Nick's hands are business-like as he sweeps sand off the back of Brandon's shirt and shorts, rubbing the back of his neck, too, although Brandon's not sure whether the sand had actually gotten that high.

Brandon's just turning back to say thanks when Nick steps closer, and they nearly knock heads — which would probably be the most embarrassing way to get a concussion, jeez.

"I think we look good enough to not get kicked out," Nick says, still standing awfully close. "So, food?"

"Sure," Brandon says. It's really hard to look away, as fucking sappy as it sounds. He likes being this close to Nick.

"Let's make it quick, though." Nick says. "Because I really want to blow you when we get back to our room."

Brandon doesn't do anything mortifying like choke when Nick says that, casual as anything, and right there in public where anyone could hear. But it's a close thing.

"Uh, right," he says eventually, when it's clear Nick's waiting for some kind of reply. "That sounds, I mean. Yeah. Fuck. Let's— find some dinner. Fuck, Leds."

"Cool," Nick says, and drops his flip-flops onto the sidewalk, stepping back into them before looking back over his shoulder to find Brandon doing the same. "Thought you'd think so."

* * *

Brandon picks a meal that's within at least shouting distance of his nutrition plan, but he doubts he'd be able to remember what he actually ate if asked afterward.

They grab another beer each with dinner, and Brandon's not quite buzzed, but definitely loosened up a little by it. It makes it easier to keep talking while they order and while they eat, rather than just letting himself focus on what they're doing after dinner. Nick tells him a story about his last road trip that carries them halfway through the entree, and Brandon laughs along with him, adding comments of his own. He picks up the thread of the conversation after that, catching Nick up on all the latest from the rest of their mutual friends in Chicago, including a story about Shawzy that he'd tried to swear Brandon to secrecy over. Brandon's pretty sure he comes off worst in it anyway, and it's not like he hadn't told Andy that he was telling Leds later too.

"Do they—" Nick starts, and then interrupts himself, taking another drink. It's pretty obviously a delaying tactic. "Uh. Did you tell anyone in Chicago? About, you know." He gestures vaguely, but Brandon reads the unspoken 'us' in that.

"Not yet," Brandon says carefully, unsure if that's even what Nick wants to hear. "I think— Smitty guessed, maybe? He didn't say anything, but," and this time it's Brandon's turn to shrug, though he's pretty sure Nick understands. Ben sees a lot for a relatively quiet dude. "Bicks and Shawzy think we're, quote, down here 'picking up hot chicks again.' "

"You'd probably look okay in a skirt," Nick says, consideringly, and Brandon raises an eyebrow.

"Something you wanna tell me?"

Nick muffles a snort and takes a drink of water before going back to the original point. "Do you want to tell them?" he asks, and Brandon is… not sure. It's not that he hasn't thought about it, because he has, but he still hasn't really figured it out for himself.

"I don't know. I mean, it's not that I don't, I just don't know if it's. A good idea?" He can't read Nick's expression, and that makes him feel shitty and guilty. "Can we maybe talk about this later? Not, uh, here."

"Sure," Nick says, and Brandon wishes the lighting was better in there, or that maybe he'd skipped that last beer instead, maybe then he'd have a better idea of what Nick's thinking. Brandon looks down at his plate again, and realizes he’s just pushing the anemic-looking tomato he'd pulled out of the side salad around his plate. It's the world's most obvious tell, probably; he doesn't usually do that kind of thing.

"You want dessert?" Nick asks, before the silence stretches out a little too long.

"Nah," Brandon says, not needing to stop and think to answer that question. "I'd rather go get an early night tonight. Long day, right?"

He looks up to meet Nick's eyes then, and has to swallow hard, and then again when Nick stretches his legs out to knock his foot meaningfully against Brandon's ankle.

"Sounds good," Nick says easily, and he gets up to go pay for their meals, digging his wallet out of the back pocket of his shorts. Brandon hopes the lighting is in fact low enough that no one else notices how his eyes follow Nick across the room.

* * *

They're circumspect on the way back to their room; Brandon doesn't wrap his arm around Nick’s waist even though he wants to, but it really only is a short walk. They both kick off their shoes after latching the door behind themselves, and Nick divests himself of everything in his pockets, carefully leaving the room key by the TV where he'll see it easily later, dropping his wallet back on the nightstand.

Brandon watches him for a moment, unsettled. It's exactly the kind of domestic, ordinary moment that they've had half a hundred times before, and he can't quite pin down why it makes him feel out of sorts right now. He bites his lip, frowning, and then decides he may as well go brush his teeth now, at least.

His stuff takes up most of the bathroom counter; and he digs his toothbrush out with no problems, shoving everything else back to the side. He leaves enough space by the sink for whatever Nick might need to leave out; he might live alone but he’s shared a bathroom with George at least for longer than he hasn’t. He rummages through the zipped bag he throws into his overnight kit whenever they’re on a road trip a second time and still doesn’t turn up what he’s looking for, which since it’s not the world’s biggest bag means it’s just not in there.

"Hey, did you bring toothpaste, Leds?"

He sticks his head back around the door jamb to ask, since apparently his travel size tube has gone astray somewhere. Nick's digging through his backpack for something, but he straightens up to say, "Yeah, I should do," and a moment later tosses it to Brandon. Brandon fields it easily and ducks back into the bathroom. His stomach feels a bit more settled now, too.

Nick trades off with him in the bathroom a minute or so later, reaching around Brandon's hip to grab the toothpaste back, his razor in one hand and his own toothbrush sticking out the side of his mouth.

"Hot," Brandon deadpans, reacting on instinct, because they've always been comfortable teasing each other.

Nick bares his teeth in a fixed grin, brush still clamped between his back molars. At least he still has them, Brandon figures. "You know you want a piece of this," he slurs, and then nearly drops the toothbrush, at which point Brandon just laughs at him and then gets out of the way. He can hear water running in the bathroom for a little bit after that, but busies himself in stripping off his t-shirt — and throwing it in the general direction of his bag — and then, after a brief pause, shucking his shorts before sitting on the end of the bed in his underwear.

This is maybe the weirdest this has ever felt; he doesn't think they've actually done this before. Normally they're all over each other the moment they've got a scrap of privacy, desperate and needy. Getting off already today — twice, even — has taken the edge off, and now Brandon isn't actually sure what they’re doing.

Nick's shirtless when he finally leaves the bathroom, and he's clearly done some trimming with the razor, neatening up his beard. He looks really good, and Brandon can't help but think about how that's going to feel; can already imagine how he's probably going to wake up with beard burn all over his thighs. Luckily he's got a few days before he has to be in a locker room again this time; the first time he'd had to change super fast and awkwardly the next morning, hoping no one would notice or ask.

"Ready for, uh, bed?" Nick asks, and balances that complete lack of smoothness with an obvious once-over that makes Brandon feel like he's simultaneously wearing too many layers and like he's practically naked.

"You had plans?" Brandon replies a heartbeat later. It's meant to be suggestive; it is suggestive, but Brandon can tell his tone is giving away more than he'd like it to.

Nick frowns, and then moves towards him, sitting on the end of the bed next to him, not quite touching. He shifts so that he's facing Brandon as best he can, and Brandon can see the muscles in his throat working as he swallows, opens his mouth to say something, clearly second-guesses himself, and then finally does start to speak.

"Did we— Brandon, I'm not going to push you. I mean, I'm not— I know that wasn't what you were expecting this weekend, you know? I just wanted to think about it. I mean, I'm not sure what I want to do, either, just. Fuck, I don't know, Saader." Nick looks a little lost, and that makes Brandon feel even worse, stomach hollow in a way that he hasn’t felt since— since they heard about the trade.

"I told my family," he says, and that was… not entirely what he'd been meaning to say. "About us, I mean."

"Oh," Nick says, eyes widening. He's very still, and Brandon's distracted momentarily by his warmth, focuses on the way Nick bites his lip unconsciously before saying anything else. "Did you— how'd they take it?"

Brandon pauses for a moment, trying to find the right words. "They want to meet you again. 'Properly,' this time," and the tone he puts on the word makes it clear it's a direct quote.

"So they're okay with you having a, uh, boyfriend?" Brandon's never seen Nick look this uncertain, and it makes him briefly furious with himself for not having been able to clarify any of this properly even to himself before now.

"They're happy I'm happy," he says with complete honesty. "You, um. This makes me happy. We're good together, right? I mean, not just in bed."

"Yeah," Nick says, and gets his hands on Brandon, pulling him in and kissing him hard. Brandon's honestly a little flustered.

"You make me happy too," he says, slowly, like he's working hard for the right words, digging in deep. "I want to keep doing this, I know that. Just, everything else, I guess. We don't have to figure it all out now, but." Nick makes a face, frustrated, though his hand is still warm on Brandon's hip, fingertips stroking a soft, slow circle on his skin. "I wanted to be clear that I want to figure this shit out with you," he says eventually, and Brandon feels that right to his core, hot and hopeful and exactly what he wants, as incoherent as it kind of is.

"Sounds good to me," Brandon says, and maybe they should try to do some more of the heavy lifting now, but it feels more important to lean in and kiss Nick again, lingering this time, leaning into him.

"You're really distracting," Nick says, but his fingers are sliding under the waistband of Brandon's briefs, suggesting that this is not actually a complaint.

"Yeah," Brandon says, letting Nick press him back into the mattress, breathless. "You said something about blowing me?"

Nick leans in to kiss him again, and Brandon feels himself sinking back into the mattress, rumpling up the coverlet that they should have got rid of first.

"Mmm," Nick says against Brandon's mouth, his hands trapped unmoving between them, and it makes Brandon squirm, try to rock his hips up for more friction. "You're right, I did."

Brandon has to take a deep breath and hold it when Nick slides back down his body, taking a short detour to suck at the faint bruising over his collarbone that's getting darker every time Nick gets his hands and mouth on him. He gets a momentary break when Nick's fingers tease at his nipple, but that's all distraction, because a few seconds later Nick's on his knees right at the end of the bed, getting his hands under Brandon's thighs to drag him closer. Brandon tries to buck up enough to help Nick get his underwear off, and it sort of works, he's got just enough leverage. But then Nick turns his face to nuzzle at Brandon's inner thigh, breath warm and beard scratching at the thin skin, and it's so good already that Brandon makes an embarrassing noise and shivers against him.

Nick gets a hand on his dick and Brandon swallows hard, tries not to move too much. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. It takes a serious effort not to let his hips jerk up at Nick's touch. Nick's running this show, he wants to let him dictate.

Nick shifts a little, getting settled, and then ducks his head to wrap his lips around the head of Brandon's dick, all heat and wet. Brandon is probably going to give himself neck strain from the way he's trying to watch. Fuck, this feels good. He reaches instinctively to get a hand on Nick's head before catching himself and putting his hand back on his own thigh. Nick pulls off a couple seconds later, not quite straightening up all the way.

"Hey," he says, and Brandon shudders again at the feeling of warm breath on his spit-slick cock. "You can, um. Use your hands, if that's what you want."

"Fuck," Brandon breathes and doesn't wait for him to ask twice, fingers sliding into Nick's hair, following the curve of his skull.

Nick goes back down fast, and Brandon's fingers tighten convulsively in his hair. He's probably pulling it, too, but fuck, Nick's mouth feels every bit as good as he remembered, or maybe even better.

Considering he got off, like, four hours ago, Brandon thinks he should maybe be embarrassed about just how fast he comes this time, too.

"Fuck," Nick says afterward, unsteady, voice a little rough. He straightens up, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth before climbing back onto the bed, his hands on Brandon's hips for leverage.

Brandon's still trying to get himself back together, feeling wrung-out and totally scattered, but not overwhelmed enough to not reach out for Nick when he half-falls on top of him.

"Hi," Nick says, looking down at Brandon, eyes wide, breathing fast.

"Hey," Brandon says and then reaches up, trying for a kiss. He's a little off-center at first but they correct pretty fast, and Brandon just lets himself sink back into this, Nick's beard rough against his face, his mouth warm and easy. Brandon hadn't actually realized before just how into this he is, but he definitely, definitely does not have a problem kissing after getting head. Kind of the opposite, really.

He can feel how turned on Nick is, the way he's shifting on top of him, and fuck, he's still wearing way too much.

"Okay," Brandon says between kisses, still a little frantic, "you can, you need to be naked, Leds, c'mon."

The two of them working together manage to get rid of the rest of Nick's clothing fairly quickly and no one gets an elbow to the face or anything either, so that's mission accomplished for sure. Brandon gets his hands on Nick's ass again, takes his time touching him, palms running from his thighs up towards his shoulder blades and back down again. Nick moans, and bites Brandon's lip, mostly by accident, and he pulls back to apologize, but Brandon shakes his head, just says, "Don't care." A few kisses later, as Nick's starting to feel even more desperate, more tense against him, Brandon lets his head fall back onto the mattress, taking a split-second to just o breathe.

"Do you want me to get you—?" Brandon asks, somewhat rhetorically, because he also manages to get enough leverage then to roll them over, so Nick's underneath him now, flushed and sweaty, eyes wide and his hair thoroughly messed up. His lips are really pink, and it makes Brandon feel too-hot to look at, to think about why.

"Won't last, tomorrow, c'mon, Saader, just this is good," Nick says, and grinds up against Brandon, his dick rubbing against the side of Brandon's hip.

It feels good but it can't be enough so Brandon braces himself, balanced between one hand and his knees, gets the other hand free to wrap around Nick's cock, and he's not wrong, it hardly takes any longer than that for him to arch up and come with a muffled moan.

"Holy shit," Brandon says, and now he can really feel the long day starting to hit him. Fuck, he's tired. He lets himself slump heavily onto Nick, sliding half-off him so they're hip-to-hip and Brandon's face down on the mattress. Moving back to where the pillows are is probably going to be more comfortable for both of them, but Brandon's not sure he could move right then if someone paid him. Maybe in a minute.

"Yeah," Nick says, and he reaches across his body to pat Brandon on the side of his ribs, which is probably, to be fair, about all he can reach easily. Brandon's fairly sure he's lying on Nick's other arm. "Thanks."

"You too," Brandon mumbles into the mattress, and he feels it shake as Nick laughs in response. "Just gimme a minute."

"You can even have two," Nick says generously, sounding just as wiped, and it's not actually all that surprising when Brandon wakes up a couple hours later, a little cold and not all that comfortable, and realizes that this time they both managed to pass the hell out before doing anything like cleaning up or even finding a blanket.

He wakes Nick up enough for them to both shuffle up the bed and under a blanket, and Brandon falls back to sleep with one arm tucked firmly around Nick's waist, feeling like pretty much everything is right with the world, or close enough.

* * *

Brandon wakes for the second time feeling warm and loose, with the faint but pleasant tiredness of well-used muscles. He has to stretch out the beginnings of a cramp in his calf, but other than that he just feels good, appreciating the break from having to follow a schedule or set an alarm.

Nick is sprawled out on his stomach, face down on the pillow and taking up more than his fair share of the bed. Brandon had managed to stay close enough in his sleep that he hadn't been in danger of falling out or anything, but he does make a mental note to make sure he upgrades the full in his old bedroom back home to at least a queen before taking Nick there in the off-season.

That thought comes so easily and seems so perfectly logical that it actually takes him a few seconds to work out why it gives him a low grade panicked feeling. Why wouldn't he bring Nick home? Vince and his other friends are going to want to spend some time with him off the ice and they've already talked about how his family do, but. Not about the off-season.

It takes some careful deep breathing and consciously relaxing again before Brandon works out it's not even Nick he's worried about this time. It's the getting to that point. Getting through the post season. And obsessing about _that_ in January is not on any sports psychologists' recommended list, so Brandon takes another few minutes to get that out of his system.

He glances at the bedside alarm clock, and it's after nine, an entirely reasonable time to be awake even on vacation. Or at least, that's going to be his excuse, because the other sensation he's identified is that he is starving and breakfast needs to happen already.

He stretches his foot out again and nudges Nick's ankle.

"Nick?" Nick is either still fast asleep or steadfastly ignoring him.

"Nick? Leds?" Brandon pokes at his calf with his toe. " _Leddy_?"

"I'm awake," Nick mumbles into his pillow. "Why am I awake?"

"I want to get breakfast before I drag you back to bed." Brandon doesn't see much point in beating around the bush. He's hungry enough that it’s his first priority. Lazy morning sex is fun, but stomach gurgling during it is kind of a mood-killer.

"Food does sound good," Nick admits, sitting up slowly. His bed head is pretty spectacular, and the way his gaze is equal parts fond and amused when he catches Brandon's eyes makes him suspect that's mutual.

"I'm just a lot better at blowing people's minds after I've had a good breakfast," Brandon says, swinging his legs out of bed and standing up.

" _Minds_?" Nick echoes, playing innocent. Brandon throws a rumpled up t-shirt at him, but he's laughing despite himself.

"Get dressed before I decide to just look after myself here," Brandon says, bending over and digging through his suitcase. It's already a completely disorganized pile of clothing.

"Yeah, because I'm not into watching that at all," Nick replies, very deadpan, but Brandon catches his eye again as he straightens up and can't suppress the shudder that rolls through his body at that. That's. Well, he's definitely not opposed to the idea.

* * *

Breakfast doesn't take them long, and it feels like it's even warmer the second day; there's a few more clouds in the sky but the sand is warm when they take a shortcut back along the beach. The water's pretty warm too, or it's warmer than the lakes Brandon's swum in over summer, at the very least.

He realizes he's lagged a few steps behind Nick, caught up in his own thoughts, and speeds up a little guiltily. He catches up to Nick stopped about where the high water mark is, watching Brandon as he waits.

"Worn out already?" Nick asks. "You want a nap?"

"Maybe later," Brandon says, which means yes to the latter, but also damn, neither of them is much good at flirting. Brandon knows he makes a good first impression, and he can pull off 'charming' most of the time, but something about Nick always seems to have him just a little off-balance.

Or maybe that's just that it's difficult to focus when he can't look at Nick without wanting to get him naked again as soon as fucking possible.

When they get back to their room, Nick hasn't even got his key back in his pocket — or set down anywhere else — before Brandon gets his hands on him, ducking his chin half an inch to press his lips to Nick's. The intensity ramps up almost immediately; Nick's kissing him back just as hard, his own hands coming up to grasp Brandon's upper arms, thumbnails digging in to the swell of his biceps, tracing the curve of muscle and skin. Brandon can feel the cool smoothness of the room key right against his bare skin for a few moments before Nick shrugs — Brandon feels his body shift — and drops it. They can definitely get that later.

Brandon steps out of his flip-flops and pulls Nick back towards the bed, pausing every couple of seconds to kiss him again. He's only wearing a sleeveless tank with shorts, and it's easy for Brandon to peel both off him. Easier still to shrug off his own clothes just as fast and then lean in, hands stroking down Nick's side from ribs to thighs, before shamelessly grabbing his ass to line them both up in a better position.

"Fuck," Nick breathes, unsteady and clearly turned on, his mouth greedy and clumsier against Brandon's, and his hips jerking forward in invitation.

"Yeah," Brandon says, and then, "Fuck, I want," and he goes to his knees fast, so quickly that Nick actually sways a little before he makes an obvious effort to steady himself.

That doesn't last all that long, because now Brandon's at eye-level with his dick, breathing fast, and fuck, he can see Nick's tension in the way that it twitches when he exhales right over the head, all his muscles going tight and ready. Brandon settles his hands onto Nick's hips, glances up to see him take a couple of quick breaths, lips parted, eyes half-closed as he watches Brandon.

"This is what you want, right?" Brandon asks, like Nick didn't just help him strip off, like Nick's hands aren't clenched tight at his sides, trembling in what Brandon is already well aware is a silent plea. Brandon leans in and and nuzzles at Nick's upper thigh, Nick's cock jumping in response when he bumps his cheek against it, his five o'clock shadow scraping faintly against the sensitive skin of the shaft.

"Fuck," Nick says again, drawing the word out longer, and he gets a hand into Brandon's hair without waiting for an invitation. His grip tightens when Brandon pulls back to do the same thing on his right side this time, and he stifles a curse when Brandon shifts one hand to the base of his dick, his touch gentle before he runs his tongue up along the underside from base to tip.

Brandon doesn't feel like teasing him much longer, shifts to get as comfortable as he can before ducking in to swallow as much as he can take, hand shifting so that his fingertips tease over Nick's balls in a way that makes him shift his weight and breathe in sharply.

It doesn't seem like it takes long at all for Nick to be right on the edge, and when Brandon pulls back long enough to look up and check on him he can see that Nick's face and chest are flushed, and that there's an obvious indentation in his lower lip, white where he's biting back a moan. Brandon learned fast that Nick doesn't make a lot of noise in bed; it makes him appreciate it all the more when he gets close enough to coming to be completely uninhibited.

"Brandon, I'm gonna— so close, please," he gets out after Brandon goes back down, steadfastly ignoring his own erection to pay as much attention as he wants to Nick, single-mindedly dragging him closer and closer to orgasm.

"Fuck, Brandon," Nick says again shortly afterward, with a recognizably different emphasis, and Brandon takes a deep breath in through his nose and sucks harder, pulling back a little and minding his teeth.

Nick shudders hard above him, against him, and comes in a long shuddering wave. Brandon sits back on his heels, breathing hard, hands steady on Nick's thighs, head down and chin pressing into his collar bone while he tries to catch his own breath, reminds his body that it's not just about getting off, although now that Nick's getting control of himself back, that's about all Brandon can think of doing.

"Wow," Nick says eventually, disengaging carefully before stepping back and sitting down heavily on the end of the bed. "That was, uh. Saader. For fuck's sake."

Brandon can't quite resist the urge to be a smart-ass, it's about the only thing stopping him from looking up and straight-up begging Nick to touch him already. "Was it good for you?"

"Maybe next time do that against something," Nick says after a second. "I thought my knees were going to give out." The specter of incredibly embarrassing sex-related injury hangs over the end of that sentence, though Brandon suspects at the back of his mind that neither of them wants to be the one to actually put it into words.

"Hey, I had you," Brandon says, a tiny bit insulted, because he did; his leverage isn't great but he's more than strong enough to have at least got him safely back onto the mattress if he'd needed to. Brandon had thought this through before jumping him, thanks.

"No kidding," Nick says, still stumbling over his words ever so slightly. "Also, like I said already: wow."

"You're welcome," Brandon says, licking his lips again; his mouth feels a little swollen, his upper lip maybe even bruised where he'd accidentally mashed it between the side of his hand and his teeth when Nick's hips had snapped forward faster than he'd expected. "Can I— fuck, I wanted to do that all week."

"Oh god," Nick says, taking that in. "Jesus, come here already."

He reaches out for Brandon, taking his hand and shuffling back up the bed, pulling Brandon with him until Brandon has to scramble forward, thigh muscles complaining as he sits up too fast and then crawls onto the mattress, covering Nick with his body, begging for a kiss while his hips roll, dick dragging wetly against Nick's abs, and it feels just as good as the last time he got off like this, Nick's hands roaming freely while their kisses get more and more desperate.

Brandon curses in a barely coherent stream of syllables as he feels his stomach twist and lower back start to clench up, so close to coming so fast; too fucking turned on by spending half the day before in bed, sleeping with Nick and then getting him off again, gorging himself on sensation.

Nick’s hands don’t stop, trailing lightly over his back, down to grab his ass, nails dragging on his skin. It’s grounding in a way, gives Brandon something to press back into as he rubs off on Nick with a single-minded focus. It's Brandon's turn to go limp a few moments later, feeling too heavy to move or even lift his head for long moments after he comes.

"You're gonna fall asleep again like that," Nick says eventually, voice soft in the quiet room.

"Sounds good to me," Brandon says, because it does.

"Okay, then," Nick says, and pats Brandon's back in punctuation, like he can't take more than a minute or two without getting his hands on him somewhere. "But first roll over, I don't want to be in the wet spot either."

Well that's fair, Brandon thinks muzzily, and then lets himself just pass the fuck out again already.

* * *

They clean up after they wake up, although Brandon isn't sure that Nick actually slept. He seems happy enough, though, and they've still got plenty of the day left. They swim some more, and Nick drags Brandon out to play golf in the afternoon. They don't get too overly competitive about it this time, although Brandon does wind up owing Nick a favor to be specified later. He's not too worried about that.

In turn, Brandon flips through the brochures in the hotel reception and demands they take a sunset cruise boat tour. It looks fun, and dinner's included.

"Which one of us is from Minnesota, again?" Nick teases him, and Brandon just grins, shrugs. "I like boats."

There's only a few other people on the cruise, and they're all couples. Or, they're all couples too, Brandon supposes. He probably should've guessed that the whole sunset bit was a stealthy romantic thing.

"Uh, it was just the best time to go, I thought?" He says to Nick, feeling foolish.

The crew had been totally professional while pointing them down the gangway to board the boat, and no one — from the tall woman who had closed the rope entry-way behind them and cast off the lines from the side, to the guy serving drinks at the bar who looked more underage than any of the passengers — had given them even a second glance. It was sort of refreshing, even if Brandon isn’t quite sure how to do this in public.

"You don't want to woo me?" Nick asks, leaning in so their shoulders bump. No one's looking at them, anyway.

"It seemed unnecessary," Brandon says, without thinking, and then cringes. "I mean, uh. There's no saving that one, is there?"

"Nope," Nick says. "Lucky you get me anyway."

The coast is splashed with the reflected colors of the sunset, streaks of orange and pink washing over the sky and staining the white sand as the sun sinks below the horizon. They lean on the railing of the boat to take it all in, the faint sea breeze fresh, the thin spray of water kicked up as the boat cuts through the low rolling waves not at all unpleasant.

"It's pretty," Nick says, but he doesn't move to take a picture or anything, just keeps leaning on the rail to watch, leaning into Brandon, warm and solid.

"Yeah," Brandon says, and it's getting darker, and everyone else has started drifting into the cabin to check out the buffet, and Brandon wants this enough to risk it; touches Nick's wrist gently to get his attention and when he turns he cups his face in both hands and leans in to kiss him.

Nick's clearly startled at first, but he rolls with it, kisses back, and they spend long minutes wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Nick's the one who pulls away eventually, but he keeps his arm tight around Brandon, weight shifting so they're balanced on the rolling deck, looking out over the sea, the stars slowly starting to come out.

"For someone who's not trying to woo me, that was romantic as fuck, Saader," he says eventually, and Brandon elbows him in the ribs, because come on, but he also can't stop grinning.

Or deny it.

* * *

Brandon doesn't even bother suggesting they hit a club or anything after they get back to shore.

It occurs to him, as they walk back into their room, that they've fallen into a familiar pattern already. Probably unsurprising given how much of their professional lives they spend in hotels, but moving around Nick while they both do all their usual end-of-day routines feels like second-nature. Brandon digs a fresh shirt for the next day out of his suitcase and considers buying a pair of tacky tourist socks later, since he's apparently lost a pair and would rather not land back in Chicago in January still wearing his flip-flops; Nick brushes his teeth and then ducks out of the bathroom at the exact right time for Brandon to go in to follow suit. Nick's lying on his stomach on the bed in just his underwear when Brandon comes out of the bathroom again, head down as he fucks around with his phone. He looks up when he hears Brandon and smiles appreciatively.

"Anything interesting going on?" Brandon asks, starting to strip off. They've been sleeping more or less naked, which is good both because he didn't actually pack all that many extra clothes himself, and because it's fun.

"JT had four goals but one of the Jackets got MVP," Nick replies, and then clearly scrolls back up in whatever he'd been reading to update Brandon on how the Hawks had done, too.

Brandon's pretty sure he won't be able to avoid seeing some of the highlights when he gets home, but at least it sounds like it was fun for the guys who went, so that's something. He doesn't want to think too much about it, though, because all it does is reinforce they've only got one more full day together before they have to split off again and travel back to their respective teams, and apparently that thought is showing on his face, because Nick sits up and gestures him to come closer already.

"Sorry you didn't get to go this year?" he asks, and sure, it'd be an honor, but Brandon's just as happy to get a break, really. Especially at this point in the season.

"We've only got one more day," Brandon says, after a second, and he climbs onto the bed, fits himself against Nick, leaning into his warmth. "And then nothing till March."

"Yeah," Nick says eventually, and he's holding Brandon tighter than he might normally too; it's not just Brandon in this.

Brandon's not sure which one of them moves first, but more kissing seems wholly preferable to dwelling on that, and they go from sitting back to horizontal fast. Nick's mouth is faintly minty, but Brandon's more focused on the press of his tongue, the way their lips move against each other. Brandon pulls away long enough to suck a faint hickey onto Nick's collarbone; he's pretty sure it'll be gone before he has to be in a locker room again. His fingers dig into Nick's skin hard enough that it goes pink-and-white underneath, hard enough that he can see the imprint for a second before he shifts his grip, and that's satisfying, too. Brandon wants to get laid right now, and almost more than that he wants to make sure that whatever he does leaves marks.

He straightens up to kiss Nick some more before nudging him onto his back, crawling back down his body with frequent pauses to touch and kiss; he runs his fingertips in tiny spirals over Nick's nipples until they're hard and Nick is shifting restlessly, hot. He watches his hands skim over Nick's ribs and past his waist, trailing over the defined planes of his abs towards his thighs, and yeah, this is good. Brandon rubs his face against Nick's chest, he's sporting some serious five o'clock shadow by this point and Nick is apparently into how that feels, too.

Brandon shuffles lower again, licks over his nipple and then shifts a little to the side, mouthing over Nick's hip, teeth grazing the skin just above the waistband of his briefs while he can feel Nick trying not to thrust up against him. He tugs at the briefs with both hands, dragging them down even though Nick can't exactly help him much with that, not with most of Brandon's weight centered over his lower body. Brandon wraps one hand around his dick — trying not to grind down too much against the mattress himself — and strokes firmly; no-nonsense, matter-of-fact. Nick doesn't even try to swallow the moan this time, and that's ridiculously satisfying. Brandon scrapes his teeth over the same patch of skin on his hip again, trying not to overbalance between the elbow he's braced on and the hand he has on Nick. He sucks at the reddening skin with purpose, it's maybe just below where his shorts sit, it probably won't show.

He catches himself right before he can bite down; that's not something they've done, it's nothing he's asked for, but apparently he's completely fucking transparent, because when he makes a dismayed noise and straightens up to apologize, Nick meets his gaze square on and says, "fuck it, do it," and fuck, Brandon doesn't need that invitation twice.

Apparently that's really doing it for Nick as well as for Brandon, because he comes all over Brandon's hand a minute or two later, hips snapping up and moaning about as loud as Brandon's ever heard him. Brandon's too turned on to really be able to do much in the way of thinking right then; he's just acutely conscious of everywhere they're touching, of Nick's skin going pink under his mouth, of just how fucking bad he wants to get off.

Nick slumps back into the mattress breathing heavily, mouth open, one hand slowly carding through Brandon's hair. "Fuck," he says, and then follows that up with, "Just, gimme a minute, I got you."

Brandon wants that, he wants to, but he also can't resist the urge to flop onto his back and get a hand on his own dick again first. It feels even better than trying to rub off on the mattress, and he makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat.

"Or, okay, you could do that," Nick says after a few seconds. He doesn't look entirely steady yet, but his gaze is absolutely riveted as he rolls onto his side to watch, close enough to Brandon that he can feel the heat of his skin but not actually touching.

"You said you wanted to watch," Brandon says, words choppy and taking more effort than they should. Shit, he's close already.

"So hot," Nick says, intent on Brandon's face, gaze flicking down to take in the movement of his hands, the way he's jerking himself off hard and fast.

"That's— yeah, exactly like that, Saader," he says shortly after, when Brandon thumbs at the head of his dick where he's leaking already, getting his hand wetter, the way he likes it; the way Nick likes it too. "Come on, I wanna watch you," he carries on, and Brandon looks over at him, appreciates the weight of his gaze, the way he's pink in the face and breathing too fast.

"Oh fuck, Leds," he manages to say, right before the orgasm sneaks up on him and pretty much whites his brain out for a second or two. He can feel his heart rate slowing by the time his mind is working again, but thinking about anything much at all still seems like it takes way too much effort.

"That was so hot, Brandon, god," Nick says, reaching over to smooth down his hair, hand trailing down the side of his face almost absently before his thumb brushes over Brandon's lip where he'd bitten it. He looks calmer too; his hair's on end but his face is less flushed, and he's breathing normally now. He actually looks more or less normal — until Brandon's gaze drops below his waist to see the reddening mark he'd left and the streaks of drying come smeared across his thighs and groin. Brandon figures he has to look much the same, if not more wrecked; he certainly feels it.

"Hey, I was doing all the work here," Brandon tries to joke, but it comes out a little shaky still, and Nick just keeps touching him, light, soothing, helping him find his balance again.

They lie like that for a while, cooling off, and eventually Brandon feels like he could maybe consider moving again, or at least think about getting under a blanket. He gropes around on top of the sheets for a discarded t-shirt — he's pretty sure it's his, but whatever — and uses that to clean them both up a little, tossing it in the direction of his dirty laundry pile when he's done. If it was Nick’s he can always FedEx it back later or something.

"I'm crashing, man," Nick says, a little later, as if it's something he should be apologizing for.

"Me too," Brandon says, and rolls closer, snuggling into Nick. Nick can probably reach a blanket to pull over both of them, Brandon cannot be bothered thinking about that right now. If he gets chilly he can just wrap himself around Nick, he's basically a human furnace anyway.

"Okay, 'night," Nick says, and there's a pause like maybe he meant to say something else, but he doesn't, and Brandon's eyes feel heavy and he really is falling asleep, so.

Brandon wakes up for a couple of minutes some time after midnight and feels wholly justified; at some point Nick's grabbed the sheet and tucked it around the both of them, and he has one arm lying casually over Brandon's side, palm flat against his stomach. That's nice, and the way Nick's a solid line of warmth at his back, pressed against him from shoulders to the back of his thighs, well. That's nice too. Brandon lets himself wallow in the absolute contentment for a moment and then promptly goes back to sleep.

* * *

Nick goes out fairly early the next morning — he's gone by the time Brandon wakes up, anyhow — but he comes back with breakfast. Brandon is still only half awake by the time they finish eating, and that's his excuse for not noticing until they're about to leave the room that Nick's shorts are riding low on his hips and, "Holy shit," Brandon says, "That's. Uh. Sorry?"

Nick brushes his fingertips over the edge of the livid mark on his side, exactly the shape of Brandon's mouth. "It doesn't hurt," he says, and Brandon should probably have a follow up to that, but he just… doesn't. He can think about it later, probably.

They have a quiet, relaxing morning enjoying the sun and the water, and from the outside they'd probably look like any two friends enjoying a holiday together. Except for how Brandon can't keep his eyes off Nick, and even after he'd tugged his t-shirt down to cover the mark, he was still thinking about how soon they could just go back to their room to fuck around some more. Or about how much touching he can get away with in public.

He's not thinking about going home tomorrow.

* * *

They grab food from one of the little cafes near the beach, and Brandon pays because he's been letting Nick pick up the tab for most of their lunches at this point, and maybe it doesn't really matter for them, but he feels a little bad. They walk back toward the pool afterward, but Brandon bumps his shoulder into Nick's and says, "I think I want a nap, actually."

What he really wants is to spend the rest of the day in bed, and he doesn't think Nick's missed that.

"Cool," Nick says, and they head back to their room and do, in fact, curl up and nap. They make out for a bit first, because Nick's right there and Brandon's not made of stone, but it doesn't go past that.

Brandon wakes up slowly, with Nick's hands on him; he's not sure how Nick manages to wake up before him most of the time, but it's nice. Nick's hands are just smoothing over his back and shoulders, tracing slow outlines and random shapes, and Brandon knows he's smiling in response by the time he actually gets around to opening his eyes.

"Hey," he says, and rolls closer for a kiss.

"Hi," Nick says, and then, "so, I figure we can pay per view a movie later, get room service and not actually have to put pants on again today?"

"Awesome," Brandon says, and then adds, laughing, "I am definitely banging you for your brains."

Nick shoves him, but he's laughing, too, and he follows almost immediately anyway, crawling right back on top of Brandon, letting his weight push him down into the mattress. It's exactly what Brandon wants.

"You're not, but we can for sure do that next," Nick says, and he shifts to get a hand between them, shamelessly groping Brandon and grinning against his mouth as they kiss messily, and yeah, a hundred percent, this is exactly what Brandon wants.

* * *

Later, Brandon couldn't actually swear to which movie it is that they watched; alternating between talking and dozing and making out meant that they were more like half-watching it, but it was entertaining enough.

It's almost like just having one of their normal hotel nights from any of the last two seasons: watching dumb movies and making fun of each other and sitting too close on one bed. The only difference is now Brandon can actually touch Nick the way he wants to. And the fact that they haven't actually done this in months.

Nick's clingier than usual when they get ready for bed, hands slow where he's touching Brandon, and he curls into him almost aggressively, face tucked into his shoulder as they settle down to sleep. They've both packed up again; taking home a faint sunburn (Nick) and a lot of sand (Brandon), but not much else; both of their bags close without any problems.

They don't have a whole lot of time to spare in the morning, but Brandon had set an alarm fully intending to make the most of the last hour or so that they actually have of vacation. He's got a second alarm for when they actually have to leave. They don't discuss it in so many words, but Nick has also been thinking along much the same lines, it turns out, as his alarm goes off a whole three minutes before Brandon's was due to.

* * *

Brandon's second alarm goes off while he's showering, which means Nick winds up walking back into the bathroom to get him to shut it up, and things nearly derail at that point. Both Nick and Brandon have enough self control to avoid that — they really can't reschedule their flights — but it's a close call.

They check out with no problems and grab a cab back to the airport; Nick's flight leaves a little earlier, but they can at least get some extra time there before they have to split off. It feels awkward being back in public again after being so isolated, even if it was only for a couple of days. Brandon's uncomfortably aware of just how many people are around, and it's making him more self-conscious about what they might see, which is about the opposite of what he wanted to get out of this trip.

Brandon's paranoid enough about delays to have them at the airport and through security with a lot of buffer time, and he's glad of it, because it means they can sit together before either of them has to go line up to board. He finds himself watching Nick tapping his fingers on the arm of the seat in tune with whatever he's half-listening to on his iPod, and that's distracting enough in its own way.

"Hey," he says quietly, pitched just for Nick to hear.

"Mmm?" Nick says. He looks up, catching Brandon’s gaze and grinning again, and fuck but that makes him feel good, every time.

"This was a really good idea," Brandon says, and he reaches over to take Nick's hand, threading their fingers together, leaning into him on the terrible plastic chairs of the gate lounge. You'd have to be standing right in front of them to notice, really, and Brandon doubts anyone would. He's not sure what it says that he's happy to take that much risk right now, but he really is.

"Yeah," Nick says, his thumb rubbing faint circles on the back of Brandon's hand, seeming totally content to just sit there like that. "I'm glad we did this."

They just sit like that for a while longer, not really paying attention to much of anything, although the ubiquitous TVs in the boarding area are blaring the news, not quite loud enough to drown out the hum of the rest of the terminal's population talking and walking and living out their own lives.

Brandon stares up at the departure announcements without really reading them until Nick squeezes his hand and then disengages slowly, fingertips dragging over Brandon's palm, brushing over his wrist in passing. "That's me," he says, and jerks his chin towards the screen, which is indeed announcing that his flight is ready to board. He stands up and turns back to face Brandon. "This was great, Saader."

"Yeah," Brandon says, rising to his feet in turn.

There's a pregnant pause for a moment, as Brandon's once again looking at Nick and wondering just exactly how to handle this moment, and Nick mutters, "Oh, fuck it," and wraps his arms around Brandon in a hug that only barely qualifies as platonic.

"See you in a couple weeks," Nick murmurs, mouth right up against his ear, breath warm on his skin.

"Yeah," Brandon repeats, trying not to visibly react to the way that Nick's beard is scraping over his newly-shaved cheek. It feels kind of stupidly good and Brandon just wants to sink into that feeling for another week. But this is it; they're back to reality now, and he knows it. Reluctantly, he pulls back from Nick, hands falling slowly from his back and coming back to his own sides, although he can't actually break eye contact now even when he knows he probably should. "See you soon. Good luck till you're playing us, Leds."

"Same to you," Nick says, wearing an easy grin, and he swings his backpack onto his shoulder and goes to join the line of people boarding.

Brandon's not ashamed to admit he totally watches him go, and he lets himself wallow in the feeling for a full minute before he steels himself, grabs his bag, and walks down the terminal to his own gate. He doesn't realize till he's been sitting down there for a couple minutes that he's absently rubbing the heel of his palm over the side of his face.

* * *

Brandon naps for most of his own plane ride back to Chicago; they've still got a practice before their next road trip, and he wants to make sure he's as well-rested and prepared as possible for that.

He showers again when he gets home, and spends some time in front of the mirror just checking for visible marks. Probably the beard burn on his thighs is hard to notice unless you're really looking, but some of last night's a little hazy and he wants to check. There's a few bruises that Brandon himself isn't entirely sure whether they're from hockey or sex, but definitely nothing that's going to get him chirped much in the locker room.

He messages Nick a couple times after that, stretched out on his couch and checking what the DVR's picked up over the weekend. They go back and forth on the usual fairly meaningless things, just like they've always done. Nick must have waited to shower until just before he was ready for bed, because Brandon gets another message right about that time which just reads "Have you been borrowing vampire books from someone??"

It doesn't make much sense to Brandon at first, and then the second message chimes through, picture attached, and oh, hey, come to think of it, he does remember doing that to Nick last night. He just wasn't expecting any of those marks to actually show up. He finds himself staring at the image for a long minute, the trail of pink-red marks easy to trace across Nick's collarbone, mapping the course of his mouth.

"Oops?" he messages back, and then, "Sorry, didn't think that would happen." That part is only mostly true; he didn't exactly do it on purpose but it's hard to actually be all that sorry about it. Nick's teammates will just assume he picked up on vacation, he won't even need to lie about it that much.

"Sounds sincere," Nick sends back, again with one of those super dorky smiley face emoticons, and Brandon grins helplessly back at his phone for a second. "I think I like it, though," he adds, and Brandon's stomach twists in the most pleasant way. God, he's so easy.

"Yeah?" he replies, and the wait for Nick to keep typing feels ten times longer than it actually is. Brandon's definitely getting turned on again, too, which he's pretty sure Nick has guessed.

Brandon's phone rings, then, and caller ID is the fucking best because Nick doesn't even bother with a greeting, just says, "I'm going to get so much shit for this, B."

Brandon grins and settles back into his couch, feet up on the table, phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder. "Your teammates gonna need the 'when two adults like each other a lot' talk or something?"

"Pretty sure most of them worked that out by themselves already," Nick says. "So, when were you planning on telling me about this new biting fetish you've apparently got?"

"It's not—" Brandon protests, because it's not his fault if Nick bruises easily, but then he thinks about that a moment longer and goes suspiciously quiet, and Nick laughs at him even more, pointing out that that's kind of the opposite of a good defense.

Brandon tries to argue and just winds up digging himself deeper, because it feels good to talk to Nick and even better to hear him laugh, even when it's been less than a day since they got to wake up together.

One thing leads to another as they chirp back and forth, and it seems like it takes no time at all before Brandon's got his hand on his dick, jerking himself off to Nick's breathless instructions, listening as Nick gets himself off in his bed in New York.

"...you know, I didn't actually call for phone sex," Nick admits when they've both come down again, breathing evening out and both reluctant to hang up. It's like that would mean really admitting their vacation's over.

"Funny how that keeps working out for you," Brandon says. "You're really good at it, though."

"Thank you," Nick says, no false modesty at all, and Brandon grins even though this isn't Skype and Nick can't see him. "Is it weird we did this, though?"

"Huh?" Brandon says, not following.

"Like, we were together this morning and I still wanted to hear you get off tonight." Nick says, slowly, feeling his way through the sentiment. "I was just going to call you an asshole for mauling me and then go to bed, and now it's— really late, fuck."

"Does this count as a honeymoon period?" Brandon wonders out loud. "Like I guess eventually we won't want to fuck around every chance we can." He doesn't exactly have a huge amount of relationship experience to compare this to, but that seems like a safe bet. "I guess I could ask some of the guys who've done long distance before?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining," Nick says. "And for the love of god don't listen to anything Versteeg or Sharpy say—" "What am I, new?" Brandon interrupts, snorting dismissively.

"Just checking, Saader," Nick says, and it's definitely time to wrap this up.

"You should go," Brandon says, scrubbing his hands over the outsides of his thighs. He's going to have to spot clean the couch tomorrow too, most likely. "You need your beauty sleep and all that."

Nick doesn't really have an answer to that, just sighs, and after a pause says, "Night, Brandon."

"G'night," Brandon says back, and then he hangs up. He should really get to bed soon himself; traveling is tiring even if it wasn't that long of a flight, and they're starting right back out again with a roadie to California anyway. It's time to focus on hockey again, and not let his imagination linger on anything else going on in his life. They've got games to win.


	6. February 2015

"You've done this before, right?" Brandon asks, stretched out on the hotel bed with his tablet on his stomach, propped up by his knees.

He's got the room to himself again and Nick has the night off, so they're indulging in a rare Skype session on the road. Brandon's keeping half an ear for the hall, partly because if there's anyone coming back soon he wants to hear them coming, and partly because even now he doesn't totally trust Sharpy to not scam a spare key and bust in to try and mess with him or something. Steeger's still out and Sharpy's pranks get less and less creative when he doesn't have willing minions. And Tazer got shaving cream-filled shoes again just yesterday, so Brandon's well aware that Sharpy will probably be looking for a new victim.

"We had phone sex last week…?" Nick says slowly, squinting at his laptop, like he's worried Brandon's losing the plot.

"Not that!" Brandon says hurriedly; he doesn't think he's up for sex right now anyway. He's a little cold — the thermostat in his room is kind of fucked up — and tired, and not really in the mood. Especially if he has to worry about someone overhearing. Hotel walls are not exactly soundproof.

"I just meant, uh. This relationship thing? It feels like you know what you're doing." The 'more than me' is unspoken, but maybe Nick gets that, too.

"Oh," Nick says slowly, and he looks down, away, like he maybe doesn't want to talk about it. Brandon's been curious about this for a while, though, and if he doesn't want to push him too hard on it, it doesn't mean, well. He just really wants to know. Nick always seems so grounded, and Brandon doesn't think it's just an age thing. "Yeah, I've, um. I had a boyfriend in Rockford?"

Brandon doesn't mean to react too strongly, but he sits up straighter at that. He hadn't— he'd had no idea about that.

"During the lockout?" he asks, carefully, because they hadn't known each other _well_ then, but he'd like to think he'd have known if Nick was seeing someone. He doesn't think he'd have been around nearly as much for all the team bonding shit — both official and unofficial — if he had been; in Brandon's experience Nick is a pretty fucking attentive boyfriend.

"Oh, no," Nick says hastily, "Mostly just, you know, the year before. Before I got called up."

Brandon narrows his eyes, eyebrows going up despite his best efforts to play this totally cool. "Mostly?" he repeats, because he knows how to pick the critical information out of that kind of deflection.

Nick is definitely avoiding making eye contact, and it's the most squirrelly Brandon's ever seen him be. It makes Brandon feel unsettled, tense and off-balance. Even when they were Not Talking About Things — like never actually putting words to that one moment after the parade a couple years back, sharing the kind of looks they could both decode and wouldn't admit to before all of this happened — he's never actually had trouble talking to Nick.

"Well, I— we, uh. Hooked up a few times during the lockout, too? Just as buddies; we already knew it wasn't going to be anything that lasted, that was why we'd broken up. But I still wanted—" Nick trails off then, and Brandon suspect that's the reason he didn't want to go into too much detail here.

"To get laid?" Brandon suggests, giving him a bit of an out.

"Well, yeah," Nick says, taking it and shooting Brandon a grateful look. It's clear this is sort of a sore spot, still. "Sometimes you just want to get off, you know? And he knew I was a sure thing, so."

Brandon narrows his eyes. He's— he's not jealous, he's not, he didn't know Nick when this thing with this other guy started, and he wasn't in the picture back in 2013, either. He can't be jealous. But he doesn't think he'd like this guy very much. And he doesn't really want to ask, but he thinks he can guess just who broke it off.

"Did anyone else know?" Brandon asks, eventually, when the silence is starting to feel like a physical thing, pushing extra awkwardness into their conversation.

"I don't think so," Nick says, "Shawzy might've guessed, maybe, but we never talked about it, you know? He just let me do my thing."

Brandon makes a noncommittal noise at that, shifts a little on the bed, catching his iPad neatly when it tilts and starts to slip. Nick fakes applause, and Brandon makes a face at him, just like they're seven year olds or something, and after that things go back onto a more normal and less fraught track.

They talk a little longer, mostly unimportant things, some league gossip, and Brandon trying to talk Nick into giving him spoilers for Game of Thrones, since he's apparently read the books. Brandon wants to fuck with George over it and he wants his bullshit to sound vaguely plausible.

It's getting late, though, so Brandon's the responsible one this week, starts wrapping their conversation up.

"Hey," Nick says, as they're saying their goodbyes, just dragging it out a little, the way they seem to when they haven't seen each other in a while. "Don't let yourself dwell on the other thing, yeah, Saader? It was a long time ago, and I was fine then and I'm fine now. Better than fine." He gives Brandon a significant look at that, and— yeah, Brandon can translate that one just fine. They're solid.

"Okay," Brandon says carefully, although he doesn't actually restrain himself for once from reaching forward a little, ghosting his thumb right over the screen of his iPad, lined up with Nick's mouth, a tiny reminder to himself that he can look but not touch right now, but they've always got later, too. "Good," he says. "I'm really going now. See you in a couple weeks, Leds."

"Night, Saader," Nick says, and quirks the corner of his mouth up in a smile — half hidden by his beard — before he reaches down and cuts the connection.

Brandon drops his tablet onto the bed beside himself, letting it turn itself off as he flips the case closed. He sheds his shirt and changes into shorts to sleep in, tugging the covers back up from the foot of the bed where he'd kicked them earlier. He's not going to spend extra time wondering why Nick's still hung up a little on a relationship from over two years ago.

If he doesn't get the greatest night sleep ever it's probably just because the room was too cold. Brandon likes to be warm. That's all.

* * *

The games immediately after the All-Star break seemed to go past in a rush, and after the first couple of days they’ve been on the road it’s almost as if they’d never had a break at all. Or, if they did, it was one where they’d half-forgotten how to play, because even when they’re winning it seems like something of a struggle, even more so than it had been right after the Winter Classic.

They lose one, win one, lose two, and by the time they land in Winnipeg it feels like it’s coming to a head; they’ve gone two full games without even putting a single goal on the board, the longest they’ve been shut out in years, and Brandon’s not the only one who’s so frustrated that it’s doing his game more harm than good. Being shut out by Niemi is bad enough, but seeing Minnesota put three unanswered goals past Crow really rankles; they’d had the Wild’s number consistently for the first half of the season and it’s embarrassing to lose that badly to a divisional rival who isn’t even in the playoff picture.

The Jets are giving them fits again, just like they have all season; Brandon never thought he’d miss the Blue Jackets being in their division, but there they are. It’s an absolute grind of a game, the Jets hitting hard and often, although Brandon at least manages to avoid the worst of that. Bogosian and Ladd seem to be going out of their way to try to hit Tazer especially, and the puck spends more time tied up along the boards than anywhere else, the Jets just shutting down their passing game. They score first, and MTS Centre erupts; Brandon grinds his teeth and heads out for his next shift. They can get this back, get this streak off their backs.

It takes them till late in the second period to tie it up, but they do, and then the third plays out in nail-biting increments, both teams working hard to claw back the advantage, but if the Hawks can’t get free to get many shots on Hutchinson, at least the same is true of the Jets; Crow’s stopping everything, but they’re not letting much get through the defense either.

They get to OT tied at 1-1, and all Brandon can think is that they don’t want this to go to the shootout; Crow’s solid and reliable there, but Hutchinson has had their number for the last two seasons at least. It feels like if this one’s going to go their way then it’s going to have to be off a greasy goal.

And then he’s crashing into the slot, just in front of the crease, as close as he can legally be, and the puck finds his stick, the net’s empty in front of him, and it’s one of the easier tap-ins he’s had in his career.

He can hear one of the Jets swear under his breath before skating off, back to their own bench, while Brandon turns to throw himself at his linemates, so fucking relieved to have got the second point, to get one himself, because it’s not like he wants to focus on it, but yeah, it’s been a while. He knows his grin is a mile wide when he talks to the media afterward, too pleased to guard his expression any more than that. It’s not like he can say, when they ask, that it’s just fucking _fun_ sometimes, but… it really is.

He hasn’t spoken to Nick much at all; the road trip has thrown what little they’d had in the way of a routine off, hopping timezones every other day, and being too worn out to do more than send the odd message when they have a moment. The Islanders are on the road too, out on their Dads and Mentors trip for a stretch along the east coast. It means that Nick’s got even less time than usual, not that Brandon can begrudge him that — he’s going to spend as much time as he can with his dad when the Hawks equivalent comes up in a few weeks.

Nick sends him a picture from Philly; an even-goofier-than-usual selfie, where he’s pulling a face that Brandon’s not entirely sure he could recreate. The next night, he gets a second pic, and it should be familiar; Nick’s normal smile, broad and open, but he’s not the only one in the picture — he’s standing with his arm around the shoulders of a man that Brandon recognizes from a couple years back as his dad. Even if they hadn’t met, however briefly, he’d know; he has the exact same smile Nick does, slightly crooked teeth and all.

Brandon feels over-warm, staring down at his phone. It’s a nice picture, and he automatically saves it to the locked folder on his phone, wants to keep it, but he’s also not totally sure what message he’s supposed to be taking from Nick sending it. He plays it safe, messages back, “Looks like you’re having fun.” Nick looks happy, and that should be all Brandon needs to know.

“Mom said the same thing,” Nick replies.

Brandon’s not sure what to think about Nick sending him family photos, or at least ones that were pretty clearly taken for family. Not that he minds. But he does wonder what Nick’s dad had thought, or if Nick had even told him he was sending it to anyone other than his mom and maybe his brother.

“Good trip then?” Brandon says; that sounds neutral enough.

“They did a brewery tour,” Nick sends back. “I think that helped with the game tonight.”

“Funny,” Brandon replies, but he’d laughed, and he hopes Nick is, too. The Isles have also hit a rough patch, Brandon’s not sure how many they’ve lost but it’s been more than they’ve won recently.

“Fuck off, I’m hilarious,” Nick replies, and then after thirty minutes or so — Brandon’s not sure if he’d meant that seriously after all, or just got caught up in something else — he sends another message, and this one just says, “Hey, Facetime me before morning skate tomorrow? 9 your time?”

Brandon’s not sure what that’s about, but he’ll choose to believe that Nick’s not going to ambush him on a game day with anything bad, so he just says, “Sure, now go hang with your dad or whatever.”

He’s not sure whether they’re supposed to be traveling or staying put; he’s barely staying on top of his own schedule for that kind of thing, so if Nick doesn’t mention it then he tends to just make his best guess about that kind of thing. It hadn’t even been a bad loss to the Bruins; Brandon had caught the highlights package on NHL network after they got in to St Louis, and it looked like it had been pretty close, even if Nick did get burned on one of Boston’s goals. That had made Brandon wince, stretched out on the hotel bed, and distracted him long enough to stop just flipping channels before idly considering finding a book or buying a movie or something.

They’ve got a day between games but it’s not like they’re going to go out for more than meals; there’s enough bad blood with the Blues that their fans are likely to be hostile to any Hawks they see around town. That, plus the fact that a ton of Hawks fans tend to travel for these games means there’s also a better than average chance that if you don’t get yelled at by someone wearing an Oshie jersey, you’re going to wind up signing ten different Hawks jerseys. Brandon’s just not really feeling the urge to deal with either option today.

He gives up on the TV after the highlights start repeating, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. He’s restless, an itch under his skin that he doesn’t think is going to go away until they actually get to the game tomorrow; there’s something about playing the Blues that gets him going, too. There’s something immensely satisfying about playing a hard game against an opponent who gets  _really_ pissed off when you beat them. They hadn’t had the best game last time they’d been in town, but Brandon feels like they’re going to make up for it this time. No matter what, it’s going to be good; the division on the line as well as the points. And their record in afternoon games this year isn’t bad; despite the way it messes with everyone’s routine. Brandon’s pretty sure they’ve come out with the win more often than they haven’t. The Caps game being a notable exception, of course.

* * *

"Well, that's new," Brandon says, raising an eyebrow at his screen. He had been curious about why Leds wanted to talk to him in the morning; they don't usually talk much first thing. But it's pretty clear why Nick wanted to talk to him over video.

"You lose a bet?" he asks, because, well, that's always a possibility.

"Nah, just felt like a change," Nick says, grinning at him, and there's so much more of his face to look at right now; clean-shaven for the first time in a couple months.

It's not like Brandon forgot how he looks without the beard or anything, but it has been a while — since right after the conference finals last year, maybe — since he's seen it.

"Looks good," Brandon says, letting himself stare. "I mean, the beard's good, too."

"Yeah," Nick says, licking his lips absently, and it's not like Brandon had managed to stop looking at his mouth. But that makes him focus even more. "I seem to remember you saying something like that a couple times."

"I'm a good communicator," Brandon says, letting his tone mimic any one of a hundred analysts who've picked their games apart over the years, but he can't hold the poker face for long, knows exactly how he's usually sounded when he's been telling Nick he likes the beard — and how it feels.

Nick's already working on some serious five o'clock shadow, like maybe he shaved last night or something; his beard comes in so heavy, and Brandon can't help but wonder what it would be like to kiss him right now, get his hands on Nick's face and hold him close.

"Yeah, you're definitely clear about what you want out there," Nick says, rolling with the terrible, terrible analogy, and Brandon laughs, and then groans.

"You're still not funny," Brandon says, "But it's good to see you."

"Thanks, I think," Nick says.

“Shut up, you know what I meant,” Brandon says. “So what are you guys doing today?” It’s rare enough now that he gets to talk to Nick this often, he might be drawing it out a little. And he’s genuinely curious. Especially if Nick’s cutting out on father-son bonding time to catch up with him.

“Don’t remember,” Nick says. “We got in late so Dad’s sleeping in, I think they’re doing a brewery and buffalo wings thing with all the dads before the game tonight?”

Brandon laughs; he hasn’t seen their itinerary but even he would’ve guessed that. There’s not a whole lot else to do in Buffalo in February. “You sleep through the team meeting again?” he asks, smirking, and Nick narrows his eyes.

“That was two years ago and I was asleep for like ten seconds, you dick. I had the _flu_.”

“Yeah, only cos Shawzy and I woke you up,” Brandon points out, quite reasonably. They were very considerate.

“I had that bruise for a week,” Nick complains. “You didn’t both need to kick me.”

“It’s not my fault you bruise easy,” Brandon says, and then even though he doesn’t mean to — doesn’t want to — he feels his face go hot, hearing the echo of other conversations they’ve had recently.

Nick just raises one eyebrow and doesn’t say anything, leaving Brandon enough time and space to dig himself deeper if he’s going to.

“Uh,” Brandon says, and then mentally shrugs, because hell, why not. “I’m not complaining.”

“Kinky,” Nick says, and then his gaze drops down, and he makes a face. “Um. Not that I don’t want to follow up on this, but I kind of have to get going.”

Brandon glances at the clock in the corner of his laptop screen, and, yeah, he should get moving too, the rest of the morning’s going to pass all too quickly. “Yeah, me too. Catch you later, Leds.”

“Bye, Saader, kick some ass tonight, huh?” Nick says, and then the video cuts off before Brandon can say the same back to him. Then again, they’re playing the Sabres, he probably doesn’t need all that much luck. Brandon gives himself a moment, and then closes his laptop decisively, before heading into the bathroom to finish getting ready for the day.

* * *

Brandon isn’t going to start getting superstitious about, like, talking to Nick on a game day, because that way lies madness, but he does have a pretty great game that afternoon. They’d had to chase the Blues for the lead, but the game had never felt out of reach at all, and being able to find Hoss in the slot for the tie-breaking goal had felt easy; finding him again for the empty netter was almost as easy, and definitely satisfying.

Admittedly, it would’ve been nicer to get the empty-net for himself, but even missing his first shot at it hadn’t done much to dent the mood he was in. He couldn’t stop grinning as they headed back to the bench, leaving Richie’s line to play out the last fifteen or so seconds, and only half paid attention — a two goal lead was a nice safety margin in that regard — as the clock wound down, too busy leaning across Tazer to keep talking to Hoss. Seabs cuffs him on the back of the head to get him moving as they all pile out over the boards to stick-tap Crow for the win, gives him a bit of a shove as well when he doesn’t respond fast enough, and Brandon just grins at him, too.

Seabs shakes his head and mutters something about kids these days, so Brandon just calls him old and skates off. That one’s not quite as effective on Seabs as it is on Sharpy, but when Brandon looks back as they all fall into line in front of the net, Duncs is talking to him too, both of them grinning, so Brandon figures everything’s just fine.

They don’t have time to hang around in St Louis and savor the win or anything, though; yet another back-to-back — Brandon’s lost count of them by this point — means that the Yotes are already in Chicago ahead of Sunday’s game.

It’s at least a short flight, and being able to get home before it’s really all that late means that they should all be in pretty good shape for the first game of the homestand. Brandon unpacks as soon as he gets in, before he can sit down and put it off, and then orders some groceries to be delivered Monday. They’ve got two full weeks before they’re on the road again, which might be the longest stretch Brandon can remember having — but they’ve also got eight games packed into that time. Brandon thinks about it a little longer, and then doubles his frozen meal order; he doesn’t think he’s going to feel much like cooking for himself.

* * *

The Coyotes look like they’re going to go down pretty easy again at first, and then almost before they know it the Hawks are trailing — they give one up on the power-play, and a second at even strength in the third, and Brandon looks up at the scoreboard from the bench and thinks, “Well, shit.”

This is definitely not the same Coyotes team they’d played last month.

Hoss manages to tie it up again for them, and apparently the back-to-back is working out just fine for him, Brandon’s impressed, but they can’t get anything else on the board through the end of regulation, or in OT either. The less said about the power-play the better; Brandon’s happy to draw a penalty, but his wrist is also aching a little from where Ekman-Larsson had got him with a slash the officials actually caught for once, and when they can’t convert on the man advantage it just seems like a poor trade. Q’s screaming from the bench in a way that does not bode well for their next video review, especially when they can’t even get a single shot on net. Brandon draws another penalty in OT, and they still can’t do a fucking thing with it, and if he couldn’t feel the frustration on the bench, he’d be able to out on the ice for sure; the crowd obviously restive, loudly disapproving as the Yotes clear their zone again, and again, not letting the Hawks get set up.

They’re back to even strength as the clock winds down, Brandon out with Shawzy and Hammer and Seabs. They manage to break out of their end and into the offensive zone, and Shawzer takes a slapper at the net, right off the rush as the bench is screaming how much time there is left. Brandon could swear it’d gone in, watches the puck fly past Smith’s shoulder, but the ref’s signaling no goal and Brandon doesn’t even lose a stride crashing the net to pick up the rebound, wrists it right back up— and off the crossbar and out. Fuck.

He’s about to throw himself after the puck to try again when the buzzer sounds and that’s it, they’re out of time. They do at least go to a video review, both benches full of guys on their feet yelling, and Brandon leans on the boards, cranes his neck up to watch the replay and maybe, maybe.

Toronto get their shit together eventually, and Brandon can see from the way McCauley looks over at their bench, at Q, that the call isn’t going their way today.

The shootout doesn’t go their way either, and a point’s better than nothing — Brandon’s not exactly worried, except maybe about the power-play — but it doesn’t seem like the best way to start such a long homestand, either.

* * *

They get one day off to recover from that, and then it’s right back to the UC, the Canucks this time, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Vancouver’s jersey is distinctly different from Arizona’s then Brandon would be having some serious concerns about living out his very own Groundhog Day. Hossa gets a pair, again; they have to go to OT, again; and this time they get burned on a Sedin goal with just over a minute remaining which means that once again, they’re going home with just one point from the night.

They get a few more chances on the power-play this time, at least, which should make Q happy, and Brandon buries one in the third, tipping Duncs’ shot so it rings off the crossbar and — contrary to the theme of the week, thankfully — past Lack and into the net.

The third game of the homestand is just two days later, and it seems like they’re heading for the same fate yet again; Hossa scores early in the third to tie it and Brandon picks up the assist, but the Devils kind of fall apart after that; Tazer adds the game-winner and Steeger picks the empty net, and this time it’s both points and the regulation win. If they weren’t most of the way through a stretch of five games in eight days they’d probably have gone out afterward to celebrate breaking that losing streak — and Hartsy’s first NHL game. As it is, Brandon heads home as soon as possible after the game and falls into bed, cramming as much rest and recovery time into the next 24 hours as he can. They’re facing the Pens next, and however selfish it is — they’re his hometown team, he grew up watching them — he wants to make a good showing against them even more than usual.

The Penguins game is a slog, plain and simple, especially since they’re a lot healthier than the team the Hawks had faced right before the All-Star break. But it’s an early game, which means if they can get through it with a point or two — and they wind up with two, thanks to Crow once again pulling it out for them in the shootout — then they’ve actually got a solid couple of days off afterward. After so many games in such quick succession that feels like an eternity, Brandon thinks, icing his knee in the locker room after blocking a shot late in the overtime. He’s also tantalizingly close to 40 points on the season, the assist on Hammer’s goal getting him within one.

He gets dinner afterward with Smitty and Hartsy; Shawzer begs off so it’s actually a pretty quiet night, and he gets home early enough that he can catch up with Nick for the first time in about a week, maybe. He’s not entirely sure how long it’s been, which more than anything else says that it’s been too long.

Brandon stretches out on the couch with his laptop, feet up, and considers going for another ice pack. His knee mostly feels fine now, though, so he’s probably safe enough without. He shoots Nick a quick text to make sure he’s home, and the little dot next his name on Skype goes green obligingly fast. Nick’s wearing a tired grin and a pale blue long-sleeved henley when the video connects, and Brandon can’t help the way his pulse kicks up a notch in appreciation.

“Hey,” Brandon says, after they’ve just looked at each other for a long moment.

“Hi,” Nick says, and licks his lips, swallowing. His gaze darts away for a second and then comes back to meet Brandon’s. “You look good,” he adds, and Brandon doesn’t even try to hide his answering smile before he says “You too.”

“How’s your week been?” Brandon asks. “Your dad enjoy the rest of the trip?” That has to have been the last time they’d had a real conversation, he thinks, and wonders again what Nick’s dad thinks of all of this. What Nick’s family thinks. He’s not sure why he didn’t ask at Christmas; they had to have known Nick was going to be in Chicago, but Brandon hadn’t thought to ask then. Hadn’t wanted to, maybe.

“Pretty good,” Nick says, rolling his shoulders in a vague shrug. “Homestand, you know how it is. At least we’re winning.”

That probably wasn’t a dig; the Hawks have at least been getting points on theirs even if they haven’t won them all, and Nick’s not particularly subtle when he does chirp, but Brandon can’t help a twinge of irritation. The Isles had started off the month worse than the Hawks, they just bounced back a little faster. And if he’d wanted to know how Nick’s team was doing he could’ve just checked the standings. He bites back words to that effect, it would be stupid to pick a fight when he knows he’s overreacting. It makes him sharper than he intends to be, though.

“Yeah, us too, mostly,” Brandon says eventually. “Hartsy finally got a couple games up with the Hawks, I don’t know if you saw?”

“Good for him,” Nick says, brows drawn together in a faint frown. “What—” he starts to say, and Brandon interrupts him, says, “Hey, so the beard’s recovering okay, I see,” trying his best to push this conversation back in a better direction. Into a more fun one, maybe.

Nick raises his hand to rub along his jawline almost without seeming to notice he’s doing so, and Brandon fancies he can hear the rasp of skin against coarse hair, remembers viscerally what that feels like under his hands.

“Yeah,” Nick says. “I got used to it, so,” he shrugs, and lets his words trail off. Brandon’s definitely not complaining, which he thinks he’s made abundantly clear to Nick in the past.

“What else is news?” Brandon asks, tapping his fingers on the side of his thigh. The other thing about afternoon games is that it really does throw your whole routine off; despite the exertion involved in playing a full game and overtime he’s still got some restless energy left over, looking for an outlet.

Nick hums, thinking, and then just shrugs. “Not much, same old. Mom might come visit for the next couple home games, she hasn’t really got to see New York yet. I guess the father’s trip reminded all of us how long it’d been, especially since we didn’t have Christmas or the All-Star break. And they’ll come out again in April if, you know.” Brandon can finish that sentence for him, yeah. _If they make the post-season_.

It’s possible Brandon’s a little spoiled by how close Pittsburgh is; how easy it is for his family to visit when they want to. He hasn’t actually stopped to think how long it’d been since Nick saw his folks, and guilt stirs at the edges of his mind. “They were there right after the trade, right?” he asks, checking his memory.

“Yeah,” Nick says, and he looks around his room as if he’s tracing past movements. “They came out for the home opener, I wasn’t really unpacked or anything then, though.”

He wasn’t settled in, is what he isn’t saying, and Brandon remembers the boxes scattered around the living room when he was there in December, thinks about how they haven’t been there for a while. Definitely weren’t there the last time that Nick had wound up carrying his laptop from the living room through to his bedroom, complaining the entire time about how he didn’t know what Brandon had against his couch, but fine, whatever. Nick looks at home there, now; like he fits, and he’s been playing like that, too. Brandon maybe catches more Islanders games these days than he really likes to admit. No one else sees his DVR, anyway.

“That sounds nice,” Brandon says, somewhat inanely. If it was Chicago then he could actually have a conversation about this, suggest places for Nick to go with his family, but he doesn’t know New York at all. He’s not used to struggling to find things to talk to Nick about, but everything that’s coming to mind seems either stupid or like it’s going to start a conversation he’s not interested in having. And he’s tired enough that he’s not actually in the mood to angle for phone sex after all; now that he’s stretched out on the couch he really doesn’t feel like moving any more than he has to.

“Mmm,” Nick says, forehead creasing as he frowns at his computer screen, and Brandon can see the way he’s chewing on the side of his lip, the same way he always does when he’s concentrating. “What’s on your mind, B?”

Brandon’s first instinct is to deflect, especially since he’s not all that sure where this uneasiness is coming from. Unfortunately, he’s also a bad enough liar that he can’t make something up on the spot, especially since it’s clear that Nick can tell something’s bothering him. And knows him well enough to call him out on that. It should be comforting that he does, but right then it’s just more pressure than Brandon really needs.

“I forgot to ask,” he says, figuring this will distract Nick enough, and besides, he really does want to know. “Did you tell them— um, why you were in Chicago? Over Christmas,” he adds, somewhat unnecessarily. It’s not like Nick will have forgotten why he was in Chicago last.

“Oh. Uh, yeah,” Nick says, and he’s shifting a bit, resettling himself on his own couch, the top of his head going out of the video frame for a moment until he stills again, reaching out to tilt the screen — and the camera — so that Brandon can see him more clearly again. “I was going to tell them, but, uh. They guessed.”

“Oh,” Brandon echoes dumbly. That was not remotely what he had been expecting to hear. That Nick’s family were kind of mad that he hadn’t come home for the holiday, maybe, or just that they’d missed him, or something, but not that. He hadn’t even been sure Nick’s parents knew that he wasn’t straight, which is probably something he should have known. Or asked about earlier.

“Apparently I talk about you a lot,” Nick says, giving him a tiny, rueful grin. Nick doesn’t talk a whole lot to anyone, really, except for his closest friends, and apparently his family. Brandon has always felt good about being in that category, but he also hadn’t stopped to think about what else that might mean. “I told mom and dad we were probably going to Mexico over All-Star weekend, and then when I said I was going to be in Chicago over the holiday…” He trails off, and shrugs. “They put two and two together. They like you.”

“Good,” Brandon says, and despite himself that comes out sounding uncertain. “I mean, they’re nice, I’m glad they were cool with it.”

“I didn’t realize I hadn’t told you, though,” Nick says. “But they’ve known for a while, yeah. And you said your family did, and it was fine. I didn’t think it was a big deal?”

“It’s not, really, I just— didn’t know.” Brandon says.

Nick tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure Brandon out, and he lets him stew for another couple of seconds, but seems to decide it’s not worth pushing.

“How much longer are you at home?” Nick asks eventually, although it’s not like he couldn’t look up the schedule, either.

“Four more games,” Brandon says; they’re only halfway through, although it feels like they’ve been at home forever already. Probably wouldn’t feel so long if they’d won more than a couple.

Nick whistles, and then says, “Damn. That’s, what, seven games?”

“Eight,” Brandon corrects. “Gotta get used to cooking for myself again.”

“You do that now?” Nick raises an eyebrow, teasing, and Brandon doesn’t stop to think too hard before flipping him off.

“You weren’t complaining in December,” Brandon points out. “I mean, sure, I end up at Shawzy’s sometimes, I don’t think they’re used to just cooking for two yet.”

“You’re right,” Nick says, and there’s a dirty edge to his grin as he makes eye contact with Brandon. “I definitely didn’t complain about anything you put in my mouth.”

Brandon groans, and tries to glare, but he can’t help the way he wants to laugh anyway, the way his lips are twitching. And, despite what he’d thought earlier, other parts of him are showing an interest, too. “You’re terrible,” he says. “That’s not hot. At all.”

“Yeah, you want me,” Nick says, leaning back into the couch cushions, and Brandon’s eyes are caught by the movement of his hand, just out of frame, forearm moving just enough along the bottom of the video screen that Brandon _knows_ he’s rubbing the heel of his palm over his pants, slow and steady. Maybe over his quads, or down to his knee, but Brandon’s good at deciphering Nick’s expressions, and— he’s definitely touching his dick.

Brandon bites his lip. He wants to, or at least, he wants to want to, but he’s just too fucking tired. Although not tired enough not to appreciate a show, if Nick’ll go for it. “Hey, you dick,” he says, and shit, he even sounds obviously turned on. “If you’re gonna do that, at least let me see.”

“Not feeling it?” Nick asks, with obvious concern, and damn, Brandon didn’t want him to _stop_.

“Probably not,” Brandon says, because he’s not ruling out a last minute rally here. “I wanna watch, though.”

“Ohh,” Nick says, and he takes a moment to think about it, chewing on his lip again, and Brandon’s only like thirty percent there, but he still wishes it was him doing that, can’t fucking wait to get his hands — and mouth — back on Nick as soon as fucking possible. They’ve got a month to wait till next time, almost exactly. It feels like a fucking eternity. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Thanks,” Brandon says, softly, not sure the mic even picked it up, but Nick flashes him another smile — slow and sweet this time — and then leans forward to adjust his computer. Brandon can translate the way the picture skips and jerks — momentarily filled with a closeup of Nick’s chest, framing the jut of collarbone and a little chest hair visible in the vee of his henley — as Nick sitting up, shifting the laptop off his knees and putting it back down on the coffee table. He tilts the screen so that his body is in frame from his thighs to the top of his head, and the way he’s slouching makes it abundantly obvious that yeah, he’s turned on.

Brandon’s mouth goes dry, he swallows hard a couple of times, and he has to lick his lips before he can speak again.

“Uh, yeah, that’s good,” he says, and Nick stretches some more, back arching before he sinks back into the cushions of his couch, loose-limbed and lazy, only moving about as fast as his hand is over the front of his pants. Fuck, Brandon has so many good memories of that couch. He’s going to be pretty sad if Nick wants to upgrade it any time soon.

“Any requests?” Nick asks, thumb hooking in the elastic of his sweatpants, and Brandon can almost feel the way the fabric would give under his hands, realizes he’s clenching his fists, itching to touch.

“Hey, it’s your show, you should just— do what you want,” Brandon says. Considering how much they’ve done this he should be better at it, or at least better at giving direction, but he’s really not; he gets distracted too easily, forgets to talk, getting caught up in his head and in watching Nick move. It’s kind of a problem.

“Cool,” Nick says, and he has one hand clenched into the fabric of his sweats over his thigh, the other still pressing down over his dick, and he’s moving his hips almost more than his hand, shifting up in tiny increments, like he’s too impatient to do anything more than the bare necessities.

Brandon thinks belatedly that he should’ve asked Nick to take his shirt off, at least, but considering he just a minute ago told him to do whatever he wanted, it seems like asking now would be kinda rude. Although he’s going to be pretty disappointed if Nick gets off and Brandon doesn’t even get to see his dick. It’s been _weeks_. The whole point of Skype sex is getting to look.

“Feel like catching up any time soon?” Nick asks, and Brandon groans as Nick finally slides a hand inside his pants and he can see the outline of his fingers against the fabric, the way his hand moves as he strokes himself.

“Probably not,” Brandon admits, “but fuck, that’s hot.”

Nick pulls his hand back out, and Brandon has to bite back a disappointed noise, but he’s only doing that long enough to arch his back and brace his feet against the floor — or the coffee table, maybe; the camera gives an alarming wobble before steadying again — and shoving his sweats down to his knees. His dick is hard, flushed a deep red, and Brandon sighs in unison with Nick when he curls his fingers around it again, thumb dragging over the head, making slow circles around the slit. Brandon has a perfect view of absolutely everything; Nick’s face going pink, chest rising and falling rapidly as his breathing picks up, muscles tensing in his thighs as he works himself over. His thighs splay open more as he keeps jerking himself off, and Brandon wishes that he could put himself properly into the space the camera occupies; down on his knees in front of Nick, so he could lean in and swallow him down.

He gets himself together enough to say as much, and the way his voice goes low and almost cracks is probably giving away more than it isn’t, but Nick’s response — groaning and stroking himself faster — is so gratifying.

“Come on,” Brandon says, and he’s leaning forward now, eager; eyes glued to the screen, and he’s probably not giving Nick a whole lot to look at here in return — but that doesn’t seem to matter right then. “You’re so fucking good,” he says. “Fuck, you gotta be close, right, Leds?” Brandon knows exactly how Nick likes to be touched, has a visceral memory of the softness of his skin, hot against his palm, the way he breathes in fast and urgent, knows exactly what he looks like right before he’s about to come.

Nick groans again, lets his hand drift lower to tease at his balls, and Brandon gives a sympathetic shiver. Maybe he isn’t too tired to get off after all. Nick’s forearm is pressed tight against his belly while his hand moves, pressing the hem of his shirt into his skin, and as he shifts again to go back to stroking himself in tight, fast movements the shirt gets caught and rides up. That’s just giving Brandon more to look at; glimpses of his hip, the lower part of his abs, the line where the thick hair around his groin starts to thin out, leaving a fainter arrow going up towards his navel.

“Fuck,” Brandon hisses again, and Nick looks up at the camera from where he’d been watching his own hand move, eyes hot, and says, “Yeah, fuck, Brandon—” and comes all over his hand.

Brandon tries to burn that image into his mind for later, and wishes momentarily that it wasn’t such a phenomenally bad idea to consider just fucking taking a picture. “Holy shit,” he says, throat dry, and it takes him a couple of seconds to get more than that out. “That was really— fuck. Nick. I really wish you were here.”

Nick blinks at him a couple of times, getting himself back together, and actually leans out of frame for a second before showing up again, a fistful of Kleenex in his hand. Okay, fair enough, Brandon can’t begrudge him that. Nick’s always about a thousand times more together right after he gets off than Brandon seems to be able to manage, anyhow.

“Me too,” he says, and Brandon just has to grin at him for a long moment, before Nick remembers what he was doing and looks away long enough to clean himself up, wiping his hand off lastly before looking around, shrugging, and — Brandon is pretty certain — choosing to just drop the tissues on top of his sweats to deal with later.

“You good?” Nick asks, and yeah, Brandon is. He’s turned on enough that it’s borderline uncomfortable, but it’s not urgent, as hot as that had been.

“I’m good,” Brandon says. “You?”

Nick grins, and then leans forward to tilt the screen again so it’s mostly just showing his face — and half of the shelving behind the couch. Nick’s still a little pinker than usual, sweaty where he wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and then tries unsuccessfully to flatten his hair where it’s standing up unevenly. Brandon’s actually a bit relieved; it wasn’t like he meant to keep staring at Nick’s cock, but it was also _right there_ , and Nick doesn’t seem to be making any move to put his pants back on, so.

“Pretty good,” Nick says, and then he looks down, and away, and Brandon knows that look, follows suit himself, and when his eyes focus on the time in the corner of the screen it’s with the realization that it’s gotten a lot later than he’d thought.

“Uh,” Nick starts to say, and Brandon just interrupts, says, “You have to go?”

“Yeah,” Nick says. “It was good talking to you.”

“It was good watching you,” Brandon says, can’t quite resist the urge, and Nick laughs with him. “Good game tomorrow, eh?”

“You bet,” Nick says. “Night, Saader.”

“Bye,” Brandon says, and it’s not quite as late for him, so he just waits and watches until Nick leans forward again, fussing with the laptop and raising one hand to give him a tiny wave goodbye before he finally cuts the connection.

He’s had worse nights, that’s for sure.

* * *

The group text is actually the first place Brandon hears of anything. Andy sends Nick a message that just says "blocking shots with your face? thought that was my trick, bro", and he's included Boller and Brandon and a couple of the other Rockford guys on it.

"What?" he says aloud, worry twisting in his stomach. Luckily he’s just at home by himself; he doesn’t particularly want to have to explain this to anyone else. Although probably any of his teammates would just chirp him mercilessly for talking to himself. If Shawzy is making jokes about whatever happened it can't be that serious, though. Probably.

"hey us dmen have been blocking shots since before it was cool" Nick replies, only a few minutes later, so he probably is fine. Brandon resists the urge to message him directly, he'll be better off if he takes a minute to find his chill first.

"stitches? sucks, man" is Smitty's contribution, followed by Mo and Shawzy both demanding pics.

"Nah, no stitches, but this has to be at least a two drink bruise" Nick messages all of them, and follows that up with a picture of him glaring at his phone camera. Brandon winces; the welt on his cheekbone is vivid and obvious already. It looks like one of the ones that's going to go about six different colors before it heals, too.

Brandon presses his thumb over the screen of his phone for a moment, considering. It's closer than he'd like to Nick’s eye, but if nothing's broken then he'll be fine at least. Better than his first concern had been, for sure.

"nasty!" Shawzy replies admiringly, "shoulda won, though"

"stuck in a bubble now too :(" Nick texts after that, and everyone in the group falls over themselves to make fun of that first, because yeah, okay, in the back of your head you can accept that it's necessary, but it still looks pretty fucking dumb.

"more pics plz" Brandon sends eventually, which is hopefully innocuous enough to pass muster in front of everyone they know, but isn't going to leave him sleeping on the couch, metaphorically speaking.

Nick just sends back a bunch of frowny face emojis, and something that Brandon thinks is maybe supposed to be a symbol for flipping people off. The emoji people really need to get moving on that one, it's a very obvious lack.

"remember next time the puck is meant to go into the NET" is Boller's contribution, which just starts Shawzy and Bollig off on giving each other shit about their respective lack of scoring, and that goes for about three screens worth of messages. Apparently no one has anything better to do.

Brandon zones out on the group text at that point; he can read it later when he's bored, although it's not like Shawzy or Boller have got any particularly clever new chirps in the last year or two, there's practically a rehearsed bit at this point. Bollig being with the Flames now hasn't really dented their routine except for making it last about five times longer when they're in different time zones, and how it means there's one fewer person to throw stuff at Andy when he won't shut up.

Brandon wants to just message Nick and ask if he's okay, but that would be. Not really a thing they do, precisely, so instead he just fidgets, and then sends a private message with a bunch of random emoji, ending with a frowny face.

“No lasting damage, I promise,” Nick sends him back a little bit later, and then he gets a flurry of pictures; one where he’s smiling that has to hurt some, and another one just showing all his teeth, and then lastly one where he’s just making a dumb face, his tongue half sticking out.

“Yeah, doesn’t look like you got hit in the head at all,” Brandon replies, although maybe sarcasm doesn’t translate well over text.

“Just a bruise,” Nick sends back, and in a second message that arrives right on the heels of the first, “Not even as bad as whatever you did at the start of the season,” and Brandon rubs at the corner of his mouth self-consciously.

He hadn’t been sure if Nick had noticed; he doesn’t even notice a lot of the time any more, too used to talking around the fact that he doesn’t have quite as much feeling in that part of his lip as he had done before catching a stick there. At least he hadn’t done any lasting damage to his teeth or jaw, but his mom had just shaken her head and sighed at him in a way that he thinks means she’d been expecting this or something like it for a while.

“That’s good,” Brandon replies, and just like that, Nick replies “Hey, I know what you like” and if he’s making dirty jokes about it then yeah, he’s probably just fine.

“Fuck you,” Brandon sends him back, and Nick just sends him a series of smiley face emoticons again. Yeah. Definitely fine.

* * *

Brandon’s watching the Isles lose to the Caps when he gets a text from Tro, letting him know he’s been called up, and with Bolland hurt he’s almost definitely going to be up for a couple weeks. They have to trash-talk each other extensively for about ten messages first — tradition is important — but Vince is the first one to mention that, hey, the timing is pretty good, huh?

The timing is fucking perfect, really; he and Brandon have been messaging each other like normal every now and then; the same way they've done since they were teenagers — which, okay, sure, wasn't actually that long ago, but sometimes it feels like it. But San Antonio feels so much further away than Miami, and with the back-to-back coming up inside of a week this timing feels almost like they're getting away with something.

They make plans for dinner in Chicago the night before the game, and then dinner in Florida, which is easier to plan for certain. The Panthers are coming in via Pittsburgh, and Brandon reminds himself to let his parents know — they know Vince well enough that they’ll be happy with an excuse to catch up with him, too. Brandon's really looking forward to seeing him; getting a couple of hours with someone who knows him well, who he doesn't actually have any secrets from, and who's going to be completely honest with him in return. He wants to hear all about how Tro's finding the big club this time, and all the latest dumb gossip about their mutual friends down in the A.

They pick that conversation up over dinner the day before the game; it’s more pleasant than spending any more time thinking about how their respective teams have been doing. Brandon would normally shake a four-goal loss off, let it motivate him for the next game, and it’s sure going to do that, but coming along with losing five of seven, what’s probably the worst home record in the Hawks’ recent history… it’s frustrating, and he hadn’t been the only one who’d been tempted to slam his stick onto the boards after shift after shift where they just couldn’t seem to get anything going. They should’ve been able to do something with the power-play, Rask practically gift-wrapped it for them, and yet they’d given up two on their own PK. Brandon hasn’t been on the ice for that many goals against for a long fucking time.

“Hey, snap out of it,” Tro says, not sympathetically, but firmly enough that Brandon looks up from where he’s staring balefully into his beer and raises an eyebrow at him.

“Four fucking goals,” Brandon says, finishing the thought he’d been dwelling on.

“Yeah, us too,” Tro says, and shrugs. “At least someone has to win tomorrow, huh?”

“Sorry about your losing streak, then,” Brandon says, smirking at him, because giving Vince shit has always been familiar and comfortable.

“You fucking wish,” Tro says, and kicks him under the table before he goes back to working his way through his starter. And letting Brandon steal half of it when he decides it looks better than his, just like old times.

* * *

Brandon finds out about Nick’s new contract from the internet first, mostly because he happened to have picked up his laptop before his phone that morning. Nick had mentioned his agent was working on a deal with the Isles, but he hadn't realized they were close enough to sign. But there it was, in full color on the NHL site; a stock photo of Nick grinning, and seven more years in blue and orange.

Brandon stops for a moment, lets himself take it in. It's not a surprise, it's not like he was seriously hoping for anything different. And this is great news for Nick; an indication of how the Islanders trust and value him. All Brandon can do — all he should do — is be happy for him. He's ridiculously proud of him, even; and he wishes for a long moment that he could be there right now to say that, the overwhelming urge making the distance between them feel fresh and sharper than usual.

When he picks up his phone a few minutes later there’s a brief message there, too. It’s just a heads up, a little stilted like Nick maybe couldn't quite believe it or just didn't know how to say it; the bare bones of the deal, with a little more detail than has been made public so far. It'll all get out sooner rather than later, Brandon's been around the NHL media machine long enough now to know that, but for now he appreciates getting all the details. It makes his carefully compartmentalized uncertainty over his own contract situation rear up again, the unsteady, unsettling feeling that while everything is probably going to work out, it's just not guaranteed. He has to take a deep breath and push that thought back down again, that's a problem for later, it's really not anything he can or should be thinking about now.

He's about to be running late for morning skate, but he has to indulge himself a little, dials Nick's number and then jams the phone in between his shoulder and ear while he's retrieving his coat from the rack, picking up keys and wallet and doing a last minute check that he has everything before he leaves the apartment.

He doesn't bother to actually say hi when Nick answers, just opens with "So, guess you're buying dinner next month?"

"You're the third person to make that joke," Nick informs him. "This morning, even."

"Well, it has been a whole hour," Brandon says. "Not everyone's got online yet, give us all time to get to you."

"You're as bad as Boller," Nick says dryly.

"I'd like to think I have some advantages over him," Brandon replies, a little reckless.

"You're about even in the beard growing stakes," Nick replies in turn, almost instantly. He'd had that comeback ready a little too quickly, Brandon thinks, narrowing his eyes.

"And?" Brandon says.

"Well, you're a better kisser," Nick says, very slowly, as if he's thinking hard about it.

"I don't think I want to know," he says, after a moment, because he couldn't help imagining that, even though he's 80% sure Nick's joking. 75%, at least.

Nick just laughs again, warm and happy and it hits Brandon again, like a punch to the gut, just how much he misses him. How important he is.

"I really wish I could be there," he says, quiet, feeling like he's putting something fragile out there, too loud in his suddenly quiet hall. "To congratulate you properly, that is."

Nick stops laughing abruptly and Brandon can hear him breathe in, and then exhale with a sigh. "Yeah," he says, echoing Brandon's tone. "I wish you were too."

"Three weeks," Brandon reminds him, reminds himself. Three weeks till Nick's back in Chicago, till things go back to almost-normal again for a whole day.

"Yeah," Nick says again, and he might be about to say something else, but Brandon catches sight of the clock on the mantelpiece, and he's gone from almost late to ‘actually definitely going to be screwed unless traffic is miraculously nonexistent’ late.

"Shit, I have to run," he says hurriedly; Nick can do the mental math, he knows Brandon's schedule as well as he does his own, still. "Gonna be late."

"Go, go," Nick says, "Call me later."

"Bye," Brandon manages, and then almost fumbles his phone, stuffing it into his pocket as he pulls the front door closed behind him, tries the door handle to make sure it's locked, and then takes the stairs down at a run. It's faster than the elevator that way.

* * *

The rest of the morning goes just like normal; they’re not out on the ice for very long, Q tends to run short practices at the best of times, and they’re even more abbreviated on game days. He showers and changes, and then there’s some team meetings, then lunch and almost before he knows it, Brandon’s back home with a few hours to kill before he has to be back at the UC. He’s feeling as relaxed as he ever does before a game, looking forward to his nap and then kicking Vince's ass on the ice afterward, which they absolutely will, fuck you very much, Tro.

He and Vince have been going back and forth in that vein for most of the day, sending messages before and after their naps, chirping each other over WhatsApp and text messages. The Panthers had the ice after the Hawks that morning, but Brandon hadn’t felt like sticking around to say hi again when they were getting dinner again the day after anyway. During the warm-ups he manages at least one fly-by along the blueline, where Vince yells something unflattering in his direction, clearly trying to get some kind of reaction. There's not actually enough time at any point during a hockey game for Tro to bring out any of the truly embarrassing stories from Saginaw to use to chirp him, so Brandon just raises an eyebrow and ignores him.

From the Hawks perspective, the game goes pretty well, except. Except that is a pretty goddamn big exception, and Brandon's not the only one who's clearly feeling slightly unbalanced after seeing a teammate go into the boards like that. It's easy enough to tell from the trainers’ reactions that it's bad, and no matter that it was more a dumb hit rather than a malicious one... it makes the mood kind of ugly. The talking dies down on the ice, and the hitting definitely picks up.

After such a fucking terrible homestand, it should feel good to finally get another win, and the points are nice, of course, but. Fuck, what a way to do it, Brandon thinks, and spends five minutes longer than usual in the showers trying to wash away the mood.

* * *

The shitty thing about traveling right after a game is that by the time they make it to their hotel in Florida, Brandon's ready to drop, and it's way too late to even think about calling Nick. He sends him a quick message, because he'd had time on the plane to see what was going on around the rest of the league anyway, and that had been a pretty good third period the Isles had, even if Nick hadn't picked up any more points out of it.

Brandon strips off and crawls into bed pretty much the minute he's dropped his bags by the dresser, just takes his suit out to hang it up for tomorrow and then makes sure his phone is plugged in to charge.

When his alarm wakes him up the next morning there's just a short message waiting from Nick, a chirp about how he didn't see Brandon's name on the box score either. Tagged on the end — after a couple of emoji that Brandon is, frankly, not awake enough to figure out right now — is a PS, just saying 'check your snapchat if you're up early'. Nick’s the only person who even knows Brandon’s snapchat — which seemed like the best way to avoid potentially sending anything to the wrong person — so it’s not like he would’ve missed seeing the notification for all that long. At first Brandon takes that as the dig against his ability to get moving in the mornings that it is; he likes sleeping, and he's just not a morning person, okay, jeez guys. Everyone gives him shit about that. He obediently opens up the app as directed, though.

And then nearly drops his phone a second later, because that's. Well. Nick was certainly feeling cheerful last night. Fuck. Even though it would be a bad idea, Brandon spares a moment to be sad he can't actually save the video, because... fuck.

He probably should come up with some kind of reply — maybe not quite as, uh, spectacular as Nick's, though he's willing to give it a shot — but frankly at that moment all Brandon can think is 1. that he's now very definitely wide awake and 2. he's not going to have any trouble at all coming up with a fantasy to jerk off over in the shower.

_Fuck._

* * *

They have the travel day off, for the most part, and the nice weather — especially in comparison to what they've just left — has almost everyone perking up.

Brandon ducks out on a team dinner that night; he wouldn't normally do it, but he figures he can get away with it just this once, and after tomorrow he's probably not going to see Vince again until the summer; not unless the Panthers pull off some kind of miraculous turnaround to make the playoffs and they both go deep.

He grabs an Uber out to meet Tro, and naturally ends up beating him to the restaurant, which means he gets a booth and then spends five minutes messaging him to give him shit about being late even when he’s staying nearby. There's no answer — hopefully because Tro's almost there and, if he's driving, not looking at his phone — so after a minute, Brandon shrugs to himself and opens the last message he'd sent to Nick.

The Isles have a break in their schedule, so Nick's home, and bored, and actually on his phone in the same timezone as Brandon for a change.

Brandon starts out just saying hi, asking what he's up to — and he probably didn't even really need to ask, because "watching tonight's Survivor" would've been second or third on his list of guesses anyway, and that was just because the list of terrible reality TV Nick will watch is longer than what Brandon can remember off the top of his head.

Apparently he's more interesting than the TV, though, because Nick's replies are coming back at about his usual typing speed, which is— something of a relief. Brandon would like to think he's more exciting than Jeff Probst, at the very least.

"You're more fun to look at," Nick says, and Brandon snorts, and then has to cover his mouth with his hand.

Nick's next comment gets a little more specific and then a lot more explicit, and Brandon shifts awkwardly in his seat, remembering the pictures from that morning and suddenly glad that the table is covering most of his lower body. Even though no one is paying him the slightest bit of attention, Brandon still feels like he's blushing, like he must be bright pink and anyone looking at him could tell what he's reading — and, a moment later, what he's saying back to Nick.

Nick's at home on his own couch, with complete privacy and, it turns out, a total willingness to narrate all of that to Brandon over WhatsApp. Brandon's memories of that couch from last year are very positive, and he knows his mental image of what Nick's doing — where he is, how he's touching himself, and fuck, fuck Brandon misses doing that — he knows that's pretty much spot on.

As self-conscious as it makes Brandon feel, intellectually he knows that no one can tell; that if he looked in a mirror right now he might be a little red in the face, but nothing more than could be explained by the bright sunshine and warm weather outside.

"Wow, Saader, am I interrupting something here?" a voice breaks in, and Brandon looks up to see Tro standing over him, grinning hugely, and of course, for all that anyone looking at him wouldn't be able to read his expression… Vince knows him better than almost anyone, so _of course_ he's taken one look at Brandon with his phone and jumped right to the obvious conclusion.

"Fuck off, no," Brandon says, and puts his phone down on the table — face down, he's not stupid. He stands up to hug Vince quickly; pounds him on the back a few times to make up for how tightly he's holding him. "Good to see you, man."

"It's been like a day," Vince says, grinning to take the sting out of it; he knows what Brandon means.

Brandon sits down again, grabbing his phone before Tro can pull a bush league move like stealing it to fuck with him. He flips it over long enough to send Nick a quick, "gotta go, Tro's here" message, and then determinedly puts that out of his mind, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

"Hi," he says again, leaning back in his seat, shoulders against the wooden back of the booth.

"Sure you didn't get a better offer?" Tro asks, shit-eating grin firmly in place still.

"Well, you're buying my dinner, right? So nah," Brandon says, and Tro opens his mouth to reply, probably with something filthy about 'dessert', and Brandon punches him in the arm — just like they really are still in Junior — and adds, "So, c'mon, how've you been?"

"Not bad," Tro says, shrugging easily, looking down at the menu and starting to page through it. Brandon hasn't even opened his yet, too distracted, and yeah, still a little turned on, because just ignoring that has never exactly been the most effective method. "Might be getting a new linemate, maybe you've heard of him?"

"Ugh," Brandon says, and slouches in his seat, because he's man enough to admit he's jealous as fuck about that. Fucking Jagr, god, how great would it be to play with him? "He's not in the lineup tomorrow, though, right?"

Tro shrugs, and yeah, either he doesn't know for sure or it's the sort of thing he shouldn't be saying to the opposition, which is fair enough.

"So what's good here, anyway?" Brandon asks, finally picking up his menu and actually looking at it.

"I dunno," Tro says, "I asked Mitchy for a good place to eat and this is what he told me. Ek said he likes their steak, but he's not exactly picky."

"Cool," Brandon says, and there's certainly enough options on the menu, he can put together something with enough protein and enough calories that he's not going to feel like shit later. The hotel here does a good breakfast too, he's pretty sure he remembers that correctly.

They stick to general small talk while they wait for someone to come back and take their order, and Brandon changes his mind at the last second and adds a locally brewed beer to his order; Tro calls him a hipster.

It's easy to fall back into talking to Tro; they've spent so much time together that Brandon's probably more used to talking to him than almost anyone else. It's something he's been grateful for more than once, the way that they can go weeks without speaking face to face and then slip right back into almost the same relationship they'd had in Saginaw, knowing they'll have each others' backs and not necessarily needing to talk.

It had taken a while to build that chemistry up in the first place, playing together and hanging out more and more off-ice, and it feels like it only ever takes a few minutes to click back into place again. Tro had been the only person Brandon's ever seriously worried he might pass to without thinking now that they're on different teams again.

Talking hockey, picking through rumors and observations about the rest of the league — and carefully avoiding their own teams — takes them through the first half of dinner; that and continuing to mock each other mercilessly where possible. Tro steals a full half of Brandon's beer, even though he is, as Brandon points out indignantly, actually legal to drink now and can order his own. Brandon had always been the one who had to get beers for the rest of them when they'd been with the Spirit, because all he had to do was forget to shave a couple days and most stores didn't look twice.

"So, how's your boy?" Tro asks, eventually, and even though Brandon had been expecting a question along these lines — had been looking forward to not needing to hide how important Nick is to him even — it's still a lot, still novel enough that he has to take a large gulp of water and then set the glass back down again before he can answer.

"He's doing good," Brandon says.

"I don't need to beat him up next week or anything?" Tro asks, grinning a little, ninety percent kidding but with enough of an edge that Brandon knows he really would maybe try it if he thought he needed to. Nick's no goon, and he's not even all that big for a defenseman, but he's still plenty taller than Vince is, so Brandon doesn't think he can be blamed for imagining that for a second and then laughing.

"No, thank you, he does not need the threatening little brother talk, or anything like that. We're good. Also, you don't remember how that backfired the time you tried it on your sister's boyfriend?"

"I wasn't expecting him to be fucking Chara sized," Tro grumbles, but there's no heat in it.

“So, how many hockey cards are you gonna get Jagr to sign this week?” Brandon asks, blatantly changing the subject, and Tro lets him get away with it, too, arguing that he’s grown out of that, thanks. Brandon kind of doubts it, but then he still sometimes has to stop and kind of pinch himself before he can believe he’s on a line with Marian Hossa, so.

“As long as you don’t put them on eBay it’s probably fine,” Brandon adds. “I bet he gets asked all the time.”

“Oh fuck off,” Tro says, once he’s managed to finish the mouthful he’d just taken. “Didn’t you have a jersey signed by him and Lemieux back in the day?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid,” Brandon says. It’s packed in a box in the basement now until he buys his own place and settles down, but that’s not relevant for the sake of this argument. “I think Leds did too, actually.”

“Aww, you can call your first kid Jaromir,” Vince coos, and then just about kills himself laughing, because Brandon doesn’t know what his face did at that comment, but by the way Tro’s reacting — trying to stop both laughing and coughing long enough to catch his breath — it must’ve been pretty spectacular.

Brandon fidgets with his steak knife, cutting the last bit of his fillet into smaller and smaller pieces while he waits for Tro to get himself under control again. That’s just— it’s so much more serious than anything he and Nick have talked about, or even thought about, and it’s making him start to wonder whether that’s what their families are expecting, if his mom and dad are going to start thinking about grandkids any time soon. And Tro was obviously just joking, sure, but it’s caught Brandon off guard enough that he has to wonder what other moments like this he has coming.

“Shit, you really do want to, don’t you?” Tro says, after he’s finally stopped laughing, although with the ease of long acquaintance Brandon is very sure that it’s not going to take much to set him off again.

“No,” Brandon says, a little sulkily. He might’ve imagined it once or twice, but not seriously. The only way out of this is to buy in to the joke, though, so he sighs and then adds, “You know no one would live it down if they did. At least you get some plausible deniability with Mario.”

That does make Vince start snickering again, but at least it’s nowhere near as uncontrollably this time, and quiet enough that no one else at a nearby table is giving them any funny looks either.

“Why do you have babies on the brain anyway?” Brandon asks, a moment later, with a sudden memory of the first time he’d talked to Vince about Nick. “Something you want to tell me, huh?”

“You don’t do anything by halves, Saader,” Tro says, and then he changes the subject, which leaves Brandon feeling like he’s missed something. He can normally follow Vince’s thought processes without more than a look or a hint, but that just doesn’t make any sense to him. He’s got better things to do than to worry about that, though, and slowly their conversation picks up again on more innocuous topics.

It’s not a late night for either of them — Brandon has to be back at their hotel in Ft Lauderdale on time, and they’ve got a back-to-back with Tampa right after anyway, he’s definitely not even remotely tempted to stay out later, plus Tro is quietly busting his ass to stay up with the Panthers as long as he can. They wrap things up early, and when Tro offers to give Brandon a ride in his rental they only get a little lost between the restaurant and the team hotel, mostly because neither of them manage to get the GPS working properly the first time. It’s still a good time, and Brandon surprises himself a little by how reluctant he is to say goodbye when Vince pulls into the car park.

He leans over the center console and hugs him one more time. “Good to see you, Tro,” he says. “I mean, we’re gonna beat you tomorrow, but good luck the rest of the season, yeah?”

“Nice try,” Vince says, but he hugs Brandon back just as hard. “We’re gonna kick your asses. Say hi to Rossy from me next time he’s in Chicago, huh?”

“You bet,” Brandon says, and unfolds himself from the front seat — not at all designed for anyone at a normal hockey player height — to head back inside the lobby.

* * *

The team dinner must’ve been somewhere nearby, because Teuvo’s back in the room they’re sharing already. Brandon shrugs his jacket off, digging a hanger out of the closet by the door for it, before turning to ask him how he’s doing. They’d called him up probably about the second they’d realized they were going to need another forward, and Brandon’s not sure how much notice he had before getting on the charter with the rest of them that morning.

“I’m good,” Teuvo answers cheerfully, stretched out on one bed with his computer and headphones.

Brandon considers flipping the TV on, but he’s not really feeling it, and if Teuvo wants to, like, Skype his family or whatever — Brandon’s not real certain which way the time zones work for Finland — then he probably doesn’t need any extra background noise.

He unpacks enough that he’ll be ready to go first thing in the morning, and then hogs the bathroom for a while, brushing his teeth, taking a quick shower and then — after a moment’s consideration — shaving. That’ll be one less thing to do in the morning.

Teuvo’s still glued to his computer by the time Brandon comes back into the main part of the room and crawls under the sheets. It’s been hovering between 70 and 80 all day so they don’t need any bedding heavier than that, and Brandon’s considering flipping the A/C back on anyway. Brandon grabs his own tablet and headphones and cues up an episode of Suits. It’s entertaining enough, but he finds himself messing with his phone at the same time anyway, so when Teuvo gets his attention and mimes turning the lights off, Brandon pauses his show without really minding in the slightest and says, “Yeah, good idea.” It’s only a little earlier than he’d usually aim to get to sleep on an off day, so he’s more than amenable to that idea.

The locker room is a little tense when they get in before the morning skate, and that slightly-off-kilter pressure persists through most of the pre-game; they should be thinking about the last big push to make the playoffs, but they’ve been losing as many as they’ve won lately, and for all the times that they’ve actually got their ducks in a row and made their systems work, they’ve had games — like the last one, Brandon thinks with lingering annoyance — where they’re giving up leads and screwing up defensively in ways that they should all know better than to do. Putting that all behind them and doing the work is all they can do, but if it’s preying on Brandon’s mind intermittently, he’s sure not the only one.

The proximity to trade deadline day doesn’t help, either. Brandon figures he’s not the only one who’s maybe a little antsy about what moves Bowman is likely to make — and while they were maybe in good shape to stand pat a few weeks ago, that’s definitely changed now. Which means, Brandon thinks, looking around the room as he tightens his skate laces, that things are going to change in the room, again. Or even if they don’t lose anyone from the Hawks, there’ll be noticeable changes if any of the guys still down with the Ice Hogs are the ones getting shipped out. He’s still got some good friends in Rockford, and Teuvo’s been down there long enough himself that Brandon would be shocked if he’s not tight with some of those guys by now too. It’s the unspoken concern in the back of his mind, and frankly, after seeing Mo traded a couple of months back, and Leds before that, obviously — well, it’s not surprising that Brandon’s feeling twitchier than he maybe did last year.

Despite the mood before, or maybe even because of it, by the time they hit the ice for warm ups, Brandon’s feeling pretty good again. They’d found a quiet bit of corridor to play two-touch and he’d managed to stay in longer than Andy, which doesn’t happen often. The ceiling had been higher than in a lot of the arenas they find themselves in, too, so they hadn’t actually nearly lost the ball this time either. He has a vague recollection of doing just that in Tampa last season, or maybe it was Raleigh. They’d had to improvise and tape a couple sticks together to knock it back down again, which hadn’t gone down well with the equipment managers. Or Shawzy, since they’d been his sticks, even if it was his idea. Either way, it feels like a good start, and as Brandon looks out across the ice while stretching, he can see the stands on their half of the ice are packed with fans in Hawks gear, waving and holding up signs along the glass.

They get exactly the start they’re looking for, too; Teuvo gets them on the board early in the first — “Someone doesn’t want to go back to Rockford!” Shawzy yells as they all skate along the bench to celebrate — and they manage to choke off the Panthers offense to the point that Brandon doesn’t think Crow’s seen more than a shot or two yet. He glances up at the scoreboard in the next stoppage and yeah: three shots for the home side. The Hawks are sitting on seven, but they’ve also got the only one which has counted so far, so.

The Panthers add one shot on a power-play shortly after, but before they can settle in and start cycling Smitty draws a hooking call, and they’ve got a minute of 4-on-4 instead of a penalty to kill. Q sends Brandon over the boards with Steeger, and he doesn’t quite realize until he gets to the dot that he’s facing off against Tro. Brandon gets his stick down and considers trying to chirp him, but that’s not his style and they both know it. Vince wins the draw decisively, and the Panthers clear their end, but Kulikov gets a hand on Brandon’s jersey for just long enough to stop him retrieving the puck — and for the officials to notice. The 5-on-3 is not among their finest moments of late; it’s like none of them could hit the net even if it was empty, then Hossa’s shot goes off the crossbar and that’s the best they can muster.

Q gives them some choice words about that in the intermission, and Seabs follows up by reminding them to stick to their systems, just keep putting it on net and they’ll get another, and Brandon can see the way that everyone settles, feels the mood shift back to a more determined confidence. It sticks with them when they come back out to start the second, and it feels almost inevitable when Brandon puts the puck over Luongo’s glove.

He spends the majority of the power-play they’d started the second on parked right in front of Luongo, getting shoved around by Florida’s D, and he stays out as the penalty comes off the clock. He’d been about to change — it’s been a long shift, even with the face off breaking it up — but then Duncs forces a turnover back at their own blueline and Brandon doesn’t have to think twice before charging back in. He sees the gap between the defenders, has just enough of an open lane on the net, and he’s been on the ice with Duncs enough by this point to be sure that he knows Brandon’s open. The pass comes exactly when he’s expecting it, though he doesn’t get the one-timer away fully, the puck wobbling and nearly coming off the heel of his stick, but he gets enough of it, and Luongo bites hard, goes down early, and next thing, they’re up 2-0.

That’s enough to get the Panthers going, it seems like; the defense tightening up on both sides, but Crow’s seeing everything that they’re not blocking, and the score doesn’t shift again until the dying minutes of the third when they add an empty-netter.

There’s no time to celebrate Crow’s shutout appropriately; Tampa’s only a short flight, sure, but with the back-to-back and the fact they’ve had miserable luck against the Bolts for the last few years, doing more than just tapping his helmet — or patting his ass; Oduya grins as he skates off — is asking for trouble.

* * *

Friday’s game starts out promisingly; they’re matched with Tampa close enough in most of the stats that matter, and they get out of the first period without giving anything up, even if they haven’t managed to score yet either. The Bolts are playing the body, using their size to hit any of the Hawks they can get to, and they’re fast and young enough as well that that’s almost everyone. Brandon’s managing to skate himself out of trouble most of the time, and he’s getting shots away even if Bishop’s filling up enough of the net that it’s hard to find a lane that the Bolts aren’t already blocking. By the second, the Lightning coaches seem to have decided they don’t like what they’d been seeing, and instead of having Stralman and Garrison all over them, the first line is suddenly seeing a lot of Hedman instead. It pays off for Tampa almost immediately; they’re getting more sustained pressure against everything but the Hawks’ top line, and their third line bangs in a puck off a back-door play after catching half of the Hawks on the ice out of position.

No one can really hang that one on Darling, the D and forwards both going completely the wrong way to help out, and Brandon groans on the bench when Stamkos adds a second towards the end of the period.

“Two shots,” Q yells, walking behind them, “That’s all you need,” and he’s not wrong, but while that gets them all sitting up straighter, it doesn’t seem to do anything to help them actually get a puck past Bishop.

The locker room in the second intermission is almost the polar opposite of where they’d been last night; no one’s making eye contact if they don’t have to, and they sit in silence — re-hydrating and adjusting their gear to whatever degree they prefer — for a long minute before Sharpy speaks up.

Duncs chimes in, and so does Seabs, and Brandon adds his voice to the others, nodding firmly and saying, “Yeah, come on, boys, we’ve got this.”

The ice looks a little friendlier when they go back out for the third, it’s not an insurmountable total by any measure; they’ve come back from worse this year, even. Tampa win the draw and pull the puck back, and it takes half the shift for the Hawks to get possession again. They break out of their own zone cleanly at least, and Brandon gets a step on the backcheck, paces himself carefully to stay onside before Tazer fires the puck around the boards and he goes in on pursuit, swinging behind the net before sending the puck back to Seabs at the blueline. Seabs gets one shot away, missing cleanly, and the Bolts pick it up and break out again.

They go end to end a couple times, and finally settle in Tampa’s zone with some sustained pressure, and it’s starting to look more promising when Versteeg takes a penalty. After killing off four penalties in the first half of the game, just when they need it the most the PK gives up a goal, and — adding insult to injury — then a second, off another penalty to Versteeg about five minutes later. Steeger’s going to be stapled to the bench for the rest of the game if Brandon’s any judge, which means they’re down another forward as well as being four in the hole, none of which is doing much for his state of mind.

He grits his teeth, trying not to chew on his mouth guard too much, and just heads over the boards when he’s told to, digging deep to try and at least eke out a consolation goal. They’ve been shut out so goddamn many times this season, and he’s sick of it, hollow and angry, knotted up with frustration. It doesn’t help him skate or score, and the clock winds down with the zero on the Hawks’ side of the scoreboard unchanged.

The locker room is quiet again afterward, and Brandon strips out of his gear, feeling the weight of another loss settle around all of them. The three game win streak they’ve been building feels abruptly miles away, just further evidence of the lack of consistency they’re starting to hear about day in and day out.

Brandon doesn’t see who has their phone out first, but the news goes around the room fast; the Hawks have made a trade during the game, Timonen coming over from the Flyers. There’s just picks going back, so it’s not as if they’re in the awkward position of having to farewell a teammate in the middle of a strange locker room, but Brandon still finds himself glancing around and wondering what this will change. He doesn’t know much about him, hasn’t really played against him, and he’s careful to stay quiet at his stall while Duncs and Seabs exchange looks and a few words around him. That’s right, the core from 2010 would have seen a lot of him during the Cup run, and Brandon’s all ears, keen to get as much information as he can.

The charter back to Chicago has a fairly subdued atmosphere, although as Brandon looks around he can see guys talking, leaning in to their seatmates and exchanging words, and Bicks and Shawzy start up their usual card game about a half hour in, which is as good an indication as any that they’re drifting back towards normal. They’ve got a couple of days off before their next game, and the Canes haven’t exactly been setting the world on fire recently, so it’ll be a good chance to shake this off and get back on their feet again.

* * *

"So, hey," Brandon says into his webcam, chin resting on his hand. He's still feeling pretty sleepy, but a Skype date's a Skype date, and it's rare enough when they're in the same time zone. "Thanks for that personally tailored porn the other day." He tries to leer, but he's pretty sure he's not pulling it off, especially if the way Nick cracks up at him is any indication.

"It wasn't porn!" Nick protests, but he's a little pink in the cheeks anyway.

"Yeah, you're right, it was better than porn," and he's joking, a little, except for how he's not. it was better because it was _Nick_ , and from the way he goes even redder before brushing it off, Brandon's pretty sure he got that too.

"Three weeks till you get the real deal in person," Nick says, kind of changing the subject.

"Oh yeah?" Brandon replies, more or less on automatic. "The real thing, bigger, longer and un— um," and this time it's Brandon who can feel his face heating up because wow, he didn't mean—

Nick is straight up laughing at him this time, not even trying to hide it.

"You're such a nerd," he says, warm and affectionate.

"Yeah, and you're into it," Brandon says.

"Lucky for you I have terrible taste, huh?"

Brandon makes a face at him, but can't hold it for long; they get little enough time to waste it with juvenile chirping, even if that is still fun.

"I really do miss you," Brandon says quietly, not breaking eye contact. Shit, how did people do this before the internet?

"Yeah," Nick says, scrubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. "Me too. Three weeks, yeah?"

"Yeah," Brandon says again, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't pretty much counting down the days.

"Think of anything you'd like to do then?" Nick asks, tone aiming for light and missing by a mile.

Brandon grins at him and just says, "Oh, I have some ideas. Maybe I'll send you a picture later, too."

* * *

"How the fuck did you do this?" Brandon texts to Nick a couple days later, sweaty and frustrated and glaring down at his phone. No matter how hard he tries, his hand just isn't steady enough. He’s meant to be good with his hands, dammit.

"??" Nick texts back a few minutes later, and it's probably a fair question; other than Skyping Nick the other day Brandon hasn't exactly felt like doing much of anything recently, other than putting as many miles and as much sleep as possible between himself and getting fucking shut out, again. So it's been a couple days since they’ve really talked, and it definitely isn't fair of Brandon to expect Nick to be totally in sync with him.

"How did you hold your phone? The other day." Brandon figures that's discreet enough if Nick isn't alone, even though he's pretty sure that he's caught him about half an hour before he'd be napping on a game day. They've spent enough time together that even on different teams Brandon's pretty sure of his routine.

A couple of minutes pass, and Brandon is torn, tempted to just call Nick; they've got a hell of a lot better at phone sex and he really wants to just get off already, but— he kind of wants to give this a try, too.

"Sucks to be you," Nick replies eventually, and that's an open invitation if ever there was one.

"Problem is it _doesn't_." Brandon texts him back, and then sends him a 2-second video over snapchat, a badly lit close-up of him making a face at his phone camera. It's not at all flattering, but it gets his feelings across. His hair looks terrible, which Nick always seems to appreciate for some reason.

"Hot" Nick sends back, with a snap of his own, a still of his feet dangling over the end of his bed, sheets tangled over his legs and lower body. It's nothing too risque; he's seen more skin in official team PR pics, but it's still enough to turn him on more. It's Nick, and Brandon just wants to crawl on top of him.

Brandon closes his eyes and leans back into his pillows, dropping his phone onto his chest before dragging both hands up over his thighs, a slow tease before he goes back to jerking off. It's just getting really good again and he's so close when his phone vibrates with another message, making him jump and tighten his hand a little too much, past uncomfortable and into pain for just a split-second. He swears under his breath and then wipes one hand off on the sheets, fumbles picking up the phone before he unlocks it. It's almost definitely Nick again, which means it's almost definitely worth his while to check now instead of... later.

There's a text and another snap, and Brandon opens the text first, sees "I'll give you a hand when I see you :)" and okay, it's the world's dorkiest smiley face but it still makes him smile right back, and again when the picture is just Nick grinning into the camera, looking sleepy and cheerful and so present, and Brandon has to just breathe for a moment.

He drops his phone again — beside himself this time — and gets himself off, fast and efficiently, careful not to make a mess. He's got his own routine to keep, and they both know it.

He still takes the time to reply, "Thanks, I'll take you up on that," back to Nick, thinks and doesn't say — even though they both know it's there — 'I miss you'.


	7. March 2015

The coaching staff shake up the lines during practice; it ’s to be expected after a game like the one they’d had against Tampa, and even more so given the trades that had come through over the weekend, the Hawks picking up Vermette from Phoenix, still looking for more options at center. Shawzy doesn’t mind playing down the middle, and Brandon thinks he actually enjoys taking draws, but there’s no denying that he’s more effective on the wing. Timonen and Vermette are both veterans enough to know how to fit themselves into a new room, taking the lay of the land and talking easily to the guys around them.

By the time they ’re on the ice, Brandon’s landed on a newly formed line with Teuvo and Vermette. It’s surprisingly easy for them to find each other, Vermette’s where Brandon expects him to be, and he doesn’t think they’ll have any difficulty communicating. The coaches let them go for a bit, running line rushes and then they trade out Sharpy for Teuvo, and that works too. Brandon hasn’t played with Sharpy a whole lot other than on the power-play; he’s been with Toews and Hossa most of the year, or sometimes with Bicks, but Brandon can read him just fine. They connect on a good passing play and get the puck past Crow, batted in top shelf by Brandon right from the edge of the crease. Crawford gives him a little shove in passing, just a reminder. Brandon grins and skates back up to start the next drill. 

Quenneville just grunts approvingly as they mill around at the blue line, watching Bicks and Teuvo skate out with Richie centering them. That ’s not direct praise, but from Q it’s as good as, especially in a practice. As a rookie, or maybe even last year, Brandon would’ve still thought of this as a demotion of sorts, worried he wasn’t doing enough, but he’s equaled his career high in goals with six weeks left in the season, and he knows right down to his bones that he’s no more or less responsible for their current struggles to maintain form than anyone else in a Hawks jersey. He’s managed to find his feet after the slow start he’d had this season, although at least then the rest of the team was going. None of which is to say he can’t improve, always burning to do more, but it’s motivation rather than excoriation.

Teuvo ’s lurking near Timonen’s stall after they’re done, clearly appreciating the chance to talk to another Finn now that Rants is down in Rockford again. Brandon tosses his shoulder pads into his stall and then turns to talk to Vermette again; the better they know each other the better they’ll be on the ice.

The media come through, mostly focused on the new guys, although Brandon spends a few minutes talking to them himself. It ’s almost rote by this point in the season; they have to simplify their game, go back to basics, get the greasy goals, work hard out there. 

And that ’s about when Smitty gets called in to Bowman’s office.

Brandon exchanges a look with Shawzy; they both know what this is likely to mean. 

It doesn ’t take long to spread through the room; phones buzzing with notifications, _Ben Smith traded to the San Jose Sharks for Andrew Desjardins_. Brandon doesn’t know much about Desjardins, but hopefully he can play the PK, since they’ve got a pretty fucking big hole there now. Brandon gives himself a moment to adjust, but it’s going to be strange to see Smitty with another team; he’s been a Hawk longer than Brandon has. When he looks over to Andy’s stall again he can see his jaw set in a stubborn line that’s broadcasting that he’s fine, this is all fine, no one better suggest he isn’t. Brandon’s getting more familiar with that ‘all my friends get traded’ look than he’d like, even though they all know perfectly well it’s part of the game, just business.

Brandon makes sure to bump shoulders with him as they walk out to their cars, and just says,  “Well, fuck,” because until they can decompress somewhere with a beer that’s about the best Shawzy’s going to let him get away with. The coaching staff had let them all know that Ben was going to have to rush to the airport, expected to dress for the Shark’s game that night, so he didn’t even have time to come back and say goodbye. They’ll have to say whatever they need to via phones or the internet, or catch up when they head out west again later in the month. 

The last minute trade can ’t help but highlight the differences in how the room feels once the deadline is actually past; Smitty’s been a steady presence, a hard worker, the guy pretty much everyone likes and can talk to, and Brandon knows from experience that it’ll take them a while to settle into seeing new faces. Desjardins isn’t going to get in before they’re due to play Carolina, so they’ll be rolling pretty much the same lines again, just with the new addition of Vermette. The fact they’re expected to go out and play a much improved game after Tampa is largely unspoken; it’s not enough of a bad streak that Brandon expects any of the guys wearing letters to stand up and say they need to do better, but they’re edging closer to that point if they can’t find a way out of the intermittent funk they keep slipping back into.

Gratifyingly, they manage to go out there and do just that against the Canes. It ’s a more physical game than Brandon’s had in a while, they’re matched up against the Canes third line who’ve clearly come out ready to take the body and crash and bang rather than score, and Brandon gets a few good hits of his own in. He also picks up a goal in the second, Vermy crashing the net and causing enough mayhem that Brandon can see the rebound come back off Ward’s pads clearly enough to get into position to wrist the puck back in and past him. Sharpy sees him line up the shot with just enough warning to twist out of the way, jumping over the puck, and that’s just enough of a screen to help Brandon out and fool Ward. Sharp, Vermette, Duncs and Seabs all crash in to celebrate, and Duncs gives him a good shot to the shoulder; so maybe Brandon’s not the only one who was scoreboard watching just a little.

* * * 

The Hawks are starting off the month with a short homestand, and after they beat Carolina they ’ve got three full days before their next game. Brandon’s laundry might just about catch up to him at this point, or he’ll have time to go buy a few new shirts at the very least. He checks in with Nick occasionally, but the Isles are on the road and dealing with their own inconsistency issues, which means they’re leaving each other messages or sending texts more often than they are actually talking.

Brandon gets home from a late dinner with the boys a couple nights before they ’re due to play Edmonton to find a bunch of pictures from Nick waiting on his phone. Apparently the thing about spending years in the Central division is that guys who play out east tend to take your suggestions for places to eat, and they’re in a Nashville steakhouse that even Brandon recognizes from the decor alone.

Nick's meal is exactly what Brandon would've expected him to order; the only thing that's different are the faintly blurry faces on the other side of the table, at the edge of the shot. Brandon squints and is pretty sure one's Boychuk, and maybe Nelson beside him, but it doesn't evoke more than the constant background levels of missing him. Fuck, Brandon would be a really shitty boyfriend if he wasn't happy that Nick liked his new teammates so much.

The third picture is some weird filter on a mostly empty glass of wine, and Brandon has to reply to that one, it's not  _that_ late and hey, same timezone for a change.

"They run out of craft beer??" He asks, because Nick is definitely not usually a red wine guy. They've split the occasional bottle of white but mostly they both stick to beer, and Nick always claims red makes him sleepy. Brandon's heard that's a pretty common allergy, so he'd just filed that away in the back of his mind with all the other things he knows about Nick.

"Not mine, the guys were fucking with Okposo," Nick texts back a few minutes later. It's not really an explanation, but at the same time it is; Brandon's been around hockey players for pretty much his entire life.

"So hot sauce or salt?" he sends back, because guaranteed some comedian dropped something into it.

"Both," Nick replies and Brandon makes a face because fuck, that would be nasty. And a waste of what was probably decent wine, too. "They picked the wrong guy to try and prank tho," his next message says, and okay, Brandon can play along with this.

"And?"

"Totally saw it coming. Picked up the glass, looked at it, said 'constant vigilance!' & thanked Leebs for buying his dinner"

Brandon laughs, because yeah, nicely done and stretches out on his bed, phone in hand. "Game tomorrow. Should I let you get some sleep already?" and his phone buzzes again in his hand almost immediately.

"Nah," Nick's message reads. "You should tell me about your day first."

* * *

They don ’t catch up again for a couple days, but Nick manages to catch Brandon at home before morning skate; phone vibrating on the table by the bed about a minute before his alarm was due to go off. He’s awake enough to hold a conversation, at least, which probably wouldn’t have been true a half hour earlier; he appreciates the fact Nick judged it this well.

"Nice work yesterday," Brandon says, sleepily, stretching underneath the covers and idly rotating his ankles. He hasn't actually bothered to open his eyes yet, but hey, it's early, and he doesn't need to look at what he's doing to talk to Nick on the phone anyway.

"You're not even up yet, are you?" Nick accuses, laughing at him and sounding way too wide awake for someone who probably got less sleep than Brandon did. Brandon doesn't have to be anywhere for like another hour or anything, though, just morning skate and then getting ready for the game.

"I'm awake," Brandon says, but that's about all; they both know he's not going to roll out of bed until the last possible minute anyway.

"Slacker," Nick says, "but thanks. It was fun."

"Nice goal, too," Brandon adds, because he watched, of course he watched, it's points in their division if nothing else, and watching at home meant no one else got to see and chirp him for the uber-dorky fist-pump he'd done in the third. "The boys are pretty happy you decided to be a one-man Predator wrecking machine, too."

Nick laughs, but sounds a little uncomfortable; Brandon figures that's maybe a little too close to some of the things they just don't talk about. "It was a good pass," he deflects, and it was, but it was also a nice shot. Nick's level-headed enough that he does know that, too, which means Brandon doesn't have to push it more than that.

"So this is nice," Nick says, "but I do have to go now."

"Sucks to be you," Brandon says, trying to make as much noise as he can sinking back into his pillows, but he's not going to get the last word this time, because Nick just says dryly, "Yes, poor me, about to go to morning skate in flip-flops and a t-shirt. Enjoy your negative windchill, Saader."

"Oh, fuck you," Brandon whines, drawing out the vowels. He'd forgotten exactly where the Isles were next, and even though the Hawks had been there, like, a week ago, it still seems like forever since he's actually been outdoors and enjoyed it. Fucking Florida.

Nick just laughs at him again, and says, "Really, gotta go. Talk later, yeah?" and Brandon agrees, "Yeah," hanging up and just letting himself wallow for a minute or three.

* * *

Brandon's watching the game against the Leafs and he still doesn't see it happen. He notices before the play by play guys do that Nick's not on the bench, but at first he just assumes an equipment issue. 

And then Nick doesn't come back, and doesn't come back, and there's 'no word' from the dressing room and Brandon is. He's not worried. Not really. He walks to the kitchen and back three times and doesn't remember what he went in there for even once.

The game wraps up, though by then Brandon's only maybe paying half attention, turning his phone over in his hands and wrestling with himself. He knows he can't worry too much, shouldn't, but... fuck.

He sends a quick message, something innocuous, especially since if it ’s bad enough someone else might be looking at Nick’s phone, and then he has to exercise his willpower to not check every ten seconds for a reply. Or call. They've got travel, they'll get in late, maybe no one will know anything till tomorrow anyway. 

He checks one last time before going to bed. Still no reply.

* * *

It turns out Nick is an uncommunicative asshole when he's hurt, which _is_ actually news to Brandon. 

He's missing games for the first time since he made the show, and okay, in that sense it shouldn't surprise Brandon that he doesn't know already how Nick's going to cope with that; being completely out in the most important run up to the playoffs, when his team is starting to struggle and clearly needs him. Brandon wouldn't take it that well himself, probably. He doesn't exactly remember being a ray of fucking sunshine himself when he was hurt back with the Spirit, but he didn't see this coming at all, and it's messing with his head. 

He's barely been able to get the details out of Nick, just that he's done something to his wrist, and the medical team think he'll be back soon, maybe two games, or maybe four or five, and Brandon has to bite back the childish urge to argue, because that would include Chicago; Nick's first game back since the trade. It was going to be weird and probably hard, seeing him back in the UC but in another uniform, but it's also something Brandon's been thinking about for months. 

Nick hasn't actually said how he feels about it himself, but Brandon figures he has to have been psyching himself up, might've almost been looking forward to it, coming back with a new contract and a new team, one that Brandon knows he's fully committed to now. 

Most of all, Brandon keeps picking at the thought that he's not even going to get to see Nick. If he's on IR, he'll stay in New York. Why would they bring him on the road if he's not going to play?

All things considered, he's almost relieved when they're about to head out west for the last time in the regular season, the dad's trip that's been circled on the calendar at his parents' place in Gibsonia since the team sent out the invitations. It'll be a distraction, a chance to actually see his dad for more than a few minutes in passing, plus whatever excursions the team's cooked up for them all. Besides, after they'd all met at the convention, he's pretty sure his dad is looking forward to getting to see a few of the other dads. It had been fairly alarming how well they'd all got on.

Two days in, Brandon thinks  — not even for the first time this year — that he should really have been careful what he wished for.

For one thing, he's _tired_ , in a way he must have been last year too but doesn't remember, just feels abruptly worn down every time he's off the ice, the days bleeding into each other even more so than usual. This end of the regular season is always a grind, and he knows he'll bounce back when  — when, always when — they make it through.

He's been staying on track, turning up where he's supposed to be and when he's supposed to be there. At first it's a rush of adrenaline to see his dad; a welcome boost to his system, and there's no denying it makes his chest feel tight in the best possible way to hug him hello, deal with adding his luggage to the sizable pile they've accumulated for all the extra bodies on this trip, before the PR team wrangle all of them into order for a group photo by the plane.

Brandon's never not going to appreciate extra time with his family, and he's happy to spend the first half of the flight talking quietly, catching his dad up on everything  — on almost everything — that's been going on. They talk about practice and what they're expecting from the Yotes, about what's planned for the dads while they're busy with the parts of their day that aren't really spectator friendly; nap time and video review and team meetings and the like. Andy leans over the back of the seat to tell them both it's something with the White Sox who're nearby for spring training, apparently, and golf, of course.

"Thank you, Andrew," his dad says, looking amused, and Brandon leans back in his own seat, reaching behind himself to shove at Shawzy's head and telling him to stop butting in to other people's conversations. Shawzy is exactly as irrepressible as Brandon expects in response to that, just flips him off and goes back to explaining something to his own dad that involves a lot of hand gestures and, apparently, a need to kick the back of Brandon's seat.

"He's not normally this bad," Brandon stage-whispers, making sure it carries. "I think he's showing off."

Andy's dad laughs even harder than Brandon's does at that.

Brandon winds down pretty fast after that, though, fidgeting with his watch and then his phone before he catches himself and makes his hands still. He's wondering how the road trip will go, how Nick is, if he's coming to Chicago, when they'll catch up if he doesn't, how to get more pucks past Smith, wondering who they'll be matched up with tomorrow.

It's too many things to concentrate on, so he makes himself set it all aside for now, tells his dad he's going to nap for a bit and digs out an eye mask and headphones  — critical for actually getting to sleep when there's this many other people around. He shifts around a little at first, even in this larger-than-usual charter with the luxury seating it still takes a while to get as comfortable as you can, but eventually he manages to drop off.

No one wakes him up until they've landed, and he's in a good mood all through the deplaning process, on the bus to their hotel and through dinner; feeling settled and awake and like he's found his feet again.

He winds up perched on the second bed in his dad's room  — the Hawks had got all of the dads and mentors their own rooms, which was also pretty sweet, even if he's sharing with Teuvo again himself. The kid's probably getting some family time in with his own dad, though; Brandon thinks it must be so much harder to do this when English isn't even your first language, although he's doing pretty good with that so far, too. Brandon sure isn't picking up much Finnish any faster, at least, though he has been trying.

His dad sits on the side of the bed opposite him, lets him wind down on the story he's telling about the equipment guys pranking Sharpy back and good. Brandon doesn't add anything else  — although the epilogue where Seabs got involved is also pretty funny — because he knows that look; it's usually followed by a serious talk where his parents ask if he really wants to stay in Pittsburgh an extra year, or if he's really ready to leave home for the development team, or whether he has something he'd like to tell them. It's a look familiar from a lifetime of accidentally broken basement doors and sneaking looks at websites he knows he's not supposed to; of confessing he likes another boy a lot, 'so much, please don't be mad’; it's basically the most obviouslyparental expression his dad ever wears. Or at least, other than the fierce pride whenever either of his children does something good or hard or smart.

"I know you don't want to talk much about it," his dad says gently, but firm enough that Brandon knows nothing short of a fire alarm is getting him out of this conversation. "But your mom and I just want to know how you are. Things still going well with your Nick?"

A week ago, Brandon could've answered this easily. They were both busy, both happy, talking all the time. Right now he's hoping there might actually be a reply to his last message when he gets five minutes alone to look at his phone, and that's enough to make his shoulders go tight again.

"They're — going," he says, cautious. Not wanting to oversell it, but he also can't lie to his dad. "We haven't talked much this week," he admits after a moment. "It kind of sucks."

"You fight?" his dad asks, like it's easy, and Brandon guesses that's fair; normal couples fight sometimes, why wouldn't they? Imagining that makes it seem all too fragile again, and that makes him clench his jaw, chilled in a way that doesn't have anything to do with the overly aggressive hotel A/C.

"No — I mean, sort of?" Brandon slouches, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, letting his head fall down, rubbing his forehead with one hand. He doesn't really want to have this conversation with his dad, no matter how much he cares. "It's weird," he says eventually, knowing there's a bit of a whine creeping into that.

His dad doesn't call him out on that, though, just lets him sit quietly for a couple of minutes.

"You'll sort it out," he says, after he clearly thinks Brandon's been stewing long enough. "You're too stubborn not to," and that's, well. Maybe fair. Brandon's pretty used to getting what he wants when he works hard enough for it. So maybe what he needs to think about is how much he wants, and if he wants it enough to try harder.

"Yeah," Brandon says, like he's agreeing, even if all he means is that he'll think about it more.

His dad stands up, claps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes firmly. He might spend more time in the office these days but there's still a lot of strength there, too. Brandon comes by all of that honestly. "Go get some rest," his dad says. "Big game tomorrow."

"I will," Brandon says, standing up, and then hugs his dad again, because he can. "Good night."

"Night, son," he says, and Brandon is careful to shut the door all the way behind himself, makes sure it doesn't slam.

Turns out he was right about Teuvo not being in the room when he gets back; it's cool and dark and empty, and Brandon nearly trips over his own suitcase on his way to the bathroom, which is no one's fault but his for leaving it there in the first place. He growls and sits down on the side of his bed, rubbing at the side of his foot which is stinging. Yeah, that's exactly what he needs right now.

He decides to take advantage of the unexpected time to himself to plug his phone back in and catch up on messages and emails. He runs through his inbox first; nothing important, a bunch of spam and irrelevant stuff, a few things from various friends and relatives, but nothing he needs to reply to right now. There's no notifications blinking on his status bar, either, but he opens WhatsApp and then snapchat, and then his texts as well, just in case.

There's still nothing at all, no reply to his last attempt to check in with Nick and see how he's doing, and after all the time he's spent trying to be calm and mature and adult about this, talking himself down while he walked back to his own room — well, it's enough to make his temper spark, fuse shriveling down to almost nothing.

He's got the room to himself right now and the Islanders will be in Chicago _next week_. Both of those facts should mean good things for Brandon and his chances of getting laid and, oh, right, seeing his _boyfriend_ , but apparently he's just shit out of luck this week.

Brandon types, deletes, types again, and then deletes every word a second time, strongly tempted to send the kind of message which doesn't so much burn bridges as annihilate them from orbit, but he's got just enough self control to not want to start something he can't finish tonight. And to know that he's, maybe, possibly  — whether he wants to admit it or not, which he sure as hell doesn't — being the tiniest bit unfair himself.

There's just as likely a really reasonable explanation for all of this. And it's getting late in Arizona; that means it's even later in New York, and again: Brandon isn't going to let himself be the asshole here. So instead he shoves his phone away and under a pillow, where he can't look at it or want to throw it across the room. He strips off, quick and emotionlessly, and crawls into bed, pulling the covers up high and burrowing in. If he can fall asleep quick enough, it won't disturb him at all whenever Teuvo gets back, and then tomorrow's another day. Hopefully a less frustrating one.

* * *

They've got the ice for morning skate after the Yotes, and with the time change and the late start it means that even Brandon is up with plenty of time to spare. Breakfast and then the bus ride eats up some of that time, but Brandon knows he's not as focused as he could be during the off-ice meeting before. They had a good game against the Coyotes last time they were in Glendale, but they'll be wanting to redeem themselves for that, and Q reminds them all to expect a strong push to start, especially with the losing streak Arizona's on.

The skate goes much the same as it usually does, and Brandon is on auto-pilot, almost, feeling like he's a half-step slow. He thinks he's managed to conceal it, fighting to break the out-of-sync sensation, but he catches Q giving him a look near the end of the skate that suggests he isn't as convincing as he'd like to think. He doesn't say anything, but Brandon's conscious that he's going to have to get this out of his system before the game or he's not going to see a lot of minutes. Quenneville has little to no compunction when it comes to stapling guys to the bench if he doesn't like how they're looking out there, and Brandon's eager to avoid that ignominious fate as long as possible.

He takes a few hard shots at the empty net once they've wrapped up, working through an arc just above the dots, six or seven pucks lined up and waiting. He's not pushing himself enough that he's in danger of straining anything, but it's satisfying at least to send a couple of half-slappers into the back of the netting, the solid thwack of stick on puck near-hypnotic and comfortingly familiar. And, he has to admit, it feels good to hit something right now. His stick breaks on what should be the second to last shot, and he skates over to swap it out, before deciding maybe he's better off to just be done now.

The showers are half empty by the time he gets there, but most of the guys are still hanging around the dressing room, talking to reporters or just shooting the shit; waiting around for the bus call. Brandon dresses quickly and then lets himself get drawn into a conversation with Crow and Versteeg that he's not all that invested in, but it keeps him from dwelling on the fact that his phone is burning a metaphorical hole in his jacket pocket.

* * *

Their dads had watched them practice, and Brandon looked up a couple times to catch his dad's eye. He caught a couple of the other guys doing the same, even Tazer and Sharpy, so apparently that really isn't a thing you grow out of, even if you're like, a dad yourself. Brandon reminds himself to mention that to Sharpy at some point, actually, because calling him old is the joke that just keeps on giving. It's good to keep him humble, anyway.

The dads all get funneled onto one bus once they're all done at the practice rink, and head over to Camelback Ranch to see the Sox, while the team get the other to head back to the hotel for lunch and pre-game naps. Brandon kicks his shoes off as soon as he gets back to his room, and then has to kick them over to the corner when he remembers that Teuvo's probably going to be right behind him; he tries to be a considerate roommate when he can. 

He strips down to shorts and crawls back into bed, realizes there isn't actually a switch for the lights by the bed – which is maybe spoiled, but most of the rooms they stay in have 'em – and then figures he may as well just leave it till Teuvo gets in. He'll probably appreciate being able to see what he's doing. And then he can get up to switch them off, too. Brandon rolls over so his back is to the door, and then tries to get comfortable. Normally he has no trouble dropping off to sleep, but this week is not doing him any favors.

The one blessing is that while he's lying there staring at the particularly ugly painting this chain have decided to reproduce in every one of their rooms he realizes he hasn't actually set his alarm yet. That's one point where having a roommate pays off in spades, but he'd rather be safe than sorry. He's not keen to be the next guy who hears about being late once for weeks on end. He kicks his sheets down and rolls out of bed, walking back over to the wardrobe where his jacket is hanging to retrieve his phone from the pocket.

Teuvo comes in then, murmuring apologies for disturbing Brandon that break off when he realizes the light's still on and Brandon's still demonstrably up. Brandon gives him a 'don't worry about it' wave with his hand, and then gestures with his phone in what is probably an internationally unmistakable charade for "had to grab my phone".

"You're setting an alarm?" Teuvo asks, playing with his own phone, and Brandon can see enough of the moving colors on the face to guess he's finishing up a level of whatever game he's currently playing on there. 

"Yeah," Brandon says, distracted, because as the screen wakes up he sees a little notification symbol up top. He hadn't felt it vibrate or anything while they'd been eating. "Yeah, I got it. Can you — the lights?"

"Yes," Teuvo says quickly, and jumps up to flip the switch, dropping the room into shadows, just the faintest hint of light curling in around the edges of the curtains Brandon hadn't bothered opening in the morning when they'd got up. 

Brandon slips back into his bed, pulls the sheet up, and then  — even though he knows it's dumb, more screen time doesn't help anyone sleep — tugs the blanket over his head enough that he can flip through his messages without disturbing Teuvo.

It's just text, a message from Nick, and Brandon could be projecting  — probably is, but he doesn't see any good reason to really give Nick much benefit of the doubt at this point — but it sounds short, like Nick's mad at him, instead of at the shitty situation. It's not  _ Brandon's _ fault, and he spares a moment to think something very unfair and very unflattering about Morgan Rielly.

"Can't talk now," Brandon sends back to him, annoyed that Nick hasn't worked that out for himself. He's pretty sure he usually knows when Nick is playing and whether it's a good time to make contact or whether he should wait a bit. "Call me after the game maybe?"

Normally he'd talk to Nick after he's napped, sneak in some time to talk on the phone or send him goofy snaps before they head over to the arena, but he's not really feeling that at the moment, and if Nick's going to be weird or silent or fuck with his head some other way then Brandon doesn't want to deal with that right before a game.

"Eastern time, remember?" Nick sends back, almost immediately, so clearly the wrist isn't slowing down his _texting_. "It doesn't matter, we can talk later."

Brandon nearly growls out loud at that; he's only been trying to talk to Nick for the last day, he's not the one making things difficult right now. Only the fact he really, really doesn't want to freak the kid out by being a huge fucking weirdo  — more than your average hockey player, anyway — lets Brandon bite that back. He's more vigorous than usual in typing out a reply, thumb pressing hard into the screen, like he can shove some sense back into Nick – or some patience back into himself – if he just tries hard enough.

"Okay, fine," Brandon sends. "I'm going to sleep now, later."

They're not actually all that sentimental, usually; they don't use a lot of endearments or anything like that, although Brandon won't swear that he hasn't let the occasional "baby" or the like slip out sometimes, but it doesn't really count when you're in bed. But it still feels unfinished, not telling Nick good luck for his games, or that he misses him; which he does, still, even if right now he's also feeling quite a strong urge to kick him in the shins too. It's leaving him off balance, and it makes Brandon's chest feel hollow, tight and uncertain. 

He shoves the phone under the spare pillow – he'll still hear the alarm go off fine from there – and rolls over onto his stomach, pressing his face into the cool cotton sheets, pulling the pillow over his head. It's a throwback to being a kid, sulking under a pile of blankets when his mom told him he couldn't stay up late or on the rare occasions he'd been grounded or sent to bed early. Maybe it should be comforting, should help him feel better, but instead Brandon thinks that more than anything else, he feels young, and dumb, and like he's getting everything wrong.

He does fall asleep eventually, but it's sure as hell not the most restful pre-game nap he's ever had, and he's just about sleepwalking through the rest of the afternoon, doing his best not to bite anyone's head off for perfectly normal behavior. Brandon's just glad that he doesn't have all that many pre-game superstitions, not like some of the other guys. He doesn't have a whole routine to juggle or a whole passel of things that could go wrong, it's easy enough to zone out listening to his iPod on the bus and then sitting in his stall in the visitor's locker room, and no one says anything when he just stretches by himself, opting out of two-touch. He doesn't always play, anyway.

He makes sure to go through his usual routine when they skate out for warm-ups, stretching again next to Seabs and then following through on line rushes, throwing a few passes back and forth with Krugs, and slowly he does start feeling more like normal, sinking into the familiar beats, the things that go the same no matter which rink they're at. 

Admittedly, Brandon doesn't have his best game that night, but at least he's not a liability, either. The Yotes scoring first isn't an ideal start, but they buckle down and get plenty of shots on Smith, and Brandon's out with the PP unit when Shawzy finally pounces on one and jams it past him. The arena erupts with visiting fans cheering, and Brandon thinks he might be a little deaf temporarily too, from Shawzy yelling joyfully in his ear, because if there's any goalie in the league that Andy really, really enjoys scoring on, it's Mike Smith. The feeling is very obviously not mutual, especially given the way Smith goes for Steeger a couple of shifts later; clearly still steamed about giving up a goal. 

Richie puts them ahead in the third, and that's good enough for the win, even if Smith doesn't give up anything else. It's low-scoring, which is apparently just how they're rolling at the moment, but it's still a regulation win, another couple points in the bank, and even if no one's going to say as much, they're all watching the standings by this point.

Brandon's feeling better after the game, having let some of the bad mood filter through and work out of his system, and he resolutely doesn't let himself slip back into dwelling on anything more complicated than getting clean and dressed and then eating again, enjoying a raucous post-game meal with his dad and the rest of the team. They're a big, loud group, and they get stopped a few times by fans who've wandered in the same direction. Brandon signs a few things, but mostly lets himself drift to the back of the crowd, he's not feeling up to a lot of attention right now. 

They walk back to the hotel, and Brandon lets himself just enjoy the nice weather, listening as his dad catches him up on what they'd been up to that afternoon, how good the lunch they'd been served had been, and how he and the others had enjoyed the game. Brandon's seen a bit of footage from the mother's trip last year and he has a pretty good idea of just how rowdy that box must've been, especially with them taking the win. It's pretty fucking cool to be able to share this with his dad, really.

* * *

They practice again in Scottsdale before leaving the next morning, easier to fit in the schedule that way, and then it's carefully orchestrated chaos as they change out of their gear – and the equipment staff frantically pack and load it as they go – and head back to the airport and their charter.

It's another short flight, less than two hours, and Brandon doesn't even bother napping this time, winds up listening to his dad and Johnny's talk, starting on the regular hockey dad stuff and then taking a side track through to home renovation stories, which they're definitely bonding over, much to Brandon's relief, actually, because that type of parental bonding has 100% less potential for sharing embarrassing childhood stories.

Well, mostly, he thinks, as Brandon's dad goes on to tell Bryan Toews about the time that Brandon nearly super-glued himself to George's door, which makes Tazer laugh way too hard, especially considering that Brandon was maybe four or five at the time. 

That's as bad as it gets, though, which is easy enough to deal with, and then they just have to unpack and settle in to their next hotel before meeting down in the lobby for the team-organized outing. 

Brandon's never been to Alcatraz – or spent much time in the Bay Area full stop – so it's easy to get distracted. The boat ride is fun, it's windy as advertised and with enough of a bite to it that, even in California, he's glad to have a coat. They get decanted into a tour group on the island and walk around, and Brandon and his dad both take the offered audio guides; they're both exactly the type of nerd to find this history interesting, or at least Brandon knows that's how half the guys he knows would put it. Instead, that interest is something they can share, and he values that, pointing out features he thinks his dad would appreciate, and listening when he has observations of his own. Brandon feels a chill run down the back of his spine as he looks into the cells and imagines being stuck in there himself; it does add a certain sense of perspective.

Some of the guys who've been with the team longer are clearly less interested in the tour, having been through before, since this is apparently not the first time the front office have picked this for a team bonding exercise. There's a lot of macabre Friday the 13 th jokes, and Sharpy's busy telling Shawzy and Nordy what Brandon is pretty confident in describing as a pack of lies about the past inhabitants of the cells the tour takes them through. Brandon's pretty sure he's seen the movie he's ripping off, if nothing else.

Tazer's as close to careless as Brandon's seen him since the summer they'd won the Cup, and he and Bicks and Darls and Shawzy goof off for the cameras on the boat and then some more on the island. Brandon laughs at them with everyone else, and then asks Leah to make sure they post whichever picture they have the dumbest expressions in, which just makes her smile sunnily at him and drawl, "Naturally." 

There's some more group photos and some of the usual PR circus after that, but it's easier to take on a day where they don't have much else on, and it's so nice to be outside for a change, too. The wind might have enough of a chill that anyone who didn't bring a coat is buying San Francisco tourist windbreakers and hoodies to compensate, but it's also fresh, and not remotely as cold as it's been back in Chicago, so while it's no Florida or Arizona, it's still a good break.

* * *

They get back to their hotel while it's still light out, an hour or two of downtime before dinner, and Brandon mumbles something about taking a nap to his dad before heading up to his room. He does want a nap before dinner, that's true enough, but it also seems like a good time to maybe check in with Nick.

He checks the schedule first out of habit, before remembering that Nick's out, and so it's not like he's playing. It is a home game though, so Brandon assumes he'll be doing the press box thing, just messages him and says, "Let me know when you're home"; he can duck out of dinner early if he has to.

He does actually take the nap he was planning on after that, and wakes up ten minutes before he needs to be downstairs. Luckily all he has to do is change his shirt and put a tie on; he got used to getting dressed in a hurry years ago, because getting that five minutes extra sleep is totally worth it.

Dinner is a lot of people, and still relatively loud – with that many people all talking, it almost has to be – but something about the long day, or maybe the sea air, whatever it is, something has everyone ready to call it a night and head back to the hotel earlier than usual, pleasantly tired out, still riding high on the win from yesterday and looking forward to the next day's game. Brandon gets a call right as they're finishing up, and excuses himself for a minute with what's probably an over the top level of haste. He looks at the caller ID just as he pushes the restaurant door open to step out onto the sidewalk, and has to bite back the instinctive disappointment when it's not Nick, but Smitty. 

"Hey, Smitty," he says, standing out of the way, but trying not to lean into the restaurant's front windows, either. He still has to get another day out of this suit and getting something on it now would suck.

It ’s good to hear Ben's voice; he sounds like he's settling in okay, wants to know if Brandon and the others can meet for a drink or whatever back at the hotel.

It is a good idea, and one that Brandon wishes he'd had himself earlier; they'll be racing out of the arena after the game tomorrow, their charter taking them back to Chicago and probably getting in at some ungodly hour of the morning, and no one really has time to do more than say a quick hello right before a game. Especially the guys who get into game day mode earlier than others, not that Brandon's thinking of anyone in particular.

"Yeah," he says, with increasing eagerness. "We can, that ’s a great idea. See you soon? Oh, you know where the hotel is, right?" He's not entirely sure where the hotel is himself, but Smitty's good with directions, and he can always call him when they get back. He doesn't know if Ben's got a car here yet either – something to ask him – or if he's going to cab it, but that's not important right now; Brandon needs to get back inside and round up anyone else who wants to see him.

* * *

Brandon doesn't bother heading up to his room when they make it back to the hotel; he's wearing perfectly acceptable clothing for a hotel bar already, and he doesn't want to risk getting caught up in something else. Bicks waves to him from the elevators, a "back soon" gesture with his coat in hand, and sure, after the time one of the rookies left his suit jacket in a hotel lobby halfway through the western Canada swing they've all been kind of paranoid about doing the same. No fun chirping someone for doing the same thing you've done yourself, and all that. 

Shawzy's vanished as well, but Brandon assumes he's just doing the same thing, or stopping by his dad's room to call his mom first, too. They'd been talking about doing that over dinner and Brandon had decided to do the same tomorrow morning; he thinks his mom will like that.

With one thing and another, he's the only one from the team who's actually in the bar when Smitty turns up, looking relaxed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, a teal Sharks ball cap tipped back on his head.

"Hey," Brandon says, getting up from his bar stool – it had seemed slightly less awkward to just wait near the bar rather than be the weirdo at a table by himself – and clapping Smitty on the back, exchanging a quick hug. It's good to see him. It's really good to see him; Brandon knew he'd missed him but now he's starting to realize just how much. It's only been like two weeks, he reminds himself, it's not like —

He's still got plenty of good friends on the team, that's what he should be focusing on here, anyway.

"Hey," Ben says, knocking his shoulder into Brandon's before taking the stool next to him. "You the only one who wanted to actually say hello to the enemy, or what?"

He's joking, grinning with it, but Brandon can see the edge of uncertainty there, like he's worried they really don't want to see him. 

"I think everyone else wanted to change first, they'll be back any minute. We just got back from dinner?"

"Cool," Ben says easily, and then signals the bartender, ordering a beer. One or two aren't going to do any of them much harm, and Brandon adds his own order a moment later, handing the bartender his card. Plus, this way he doesn't have to pay for anyone else's drinks; serves them right for being slow.

"Settling in okay?" Brandon asks after a moment, because it's the expected question, and he does genuinely want to know. Desi's a good guy, but so's Smitty, and he'd been with the organization a long time. Everyone knows and likes him, and it's gonna be a while before it stops feeling kind of weird. He's glad they're getting this catch up, though. Seeing him for the first time in a teal jersey would've been even weirder without this.

"Yeah, not bad," Ben says. "Still stuck in a hotel again," he makes a face, and Brandon wholly sympathizes, after Rockford, "But I should find a place soon, I think. How've you been?"

"Pretty good," Brandon says, because mostly he has been, he's putting up points and playing up on the top line again, his life is pretty fucking great, really. "Same old, you know. Keeping Shawzy in line, being a good example for the rookies …" 

Ben laughs at that. "Same old, sure. How's Leds? Dunno if he said, but he messaged me when the trade went down, said good luck and all that. He's a good guy."

Brandon freezes, and then tries to unfreeze as discreetly as possible. He can't — he really can't act weird about any of this; it's not that weird if Smitty mentions Nick, they've all been friends since, well, longer than they've known Brandon, for one. And they both got traded this year, of course Leds was gonna commiserate, he knows exactly how that has to feel. Brandon's just not sure why Ben's mentioning it to him.

"Uh, yeah," he says, feeling thick and slow, and like the beer was a bad idea, maybe. It's hard to swallow, all of a sudden. "Yeah, he is. He's good, I think? We haven't caught up in a bit." He's hoping that's vague enough, but Smitty just gives him a look that Brandon doesn't want to read. It's confused, and a little — disappointed, maybe?

"I thought you guys talked all the time," Ben says, tracing his finger in idle circles through the condensation collecting on the bar under his bottle. "You're always on your phone these days, Saader." 

Brandon shrugs, not really sure what to say to that. He's not sure if Ben's asking — well, he's not outright asking it, anyway. And even if Brandon wasn't mad at Nick right now, he wouldn't tell someone else about them without getting Nick's okay first anyway. There's a tiny voice at the back of his mind that's suggesting Nick would probably be fine with it, maybe more fine than Brandon is, but Brandon doesn't have to pay any attention to that. 

He opens his mouth to deflect – catching the basketball on the TV behind the bar at least gives him a good cue; the Warriors are good this year, right, but before he can say anything there's a dramatic increase in the noise level in the bar. As Brandon spins around on his stool to check he can see that oh, yeah, there's Shawzer and Bicks and Crow and a bunch of other guys, mostly in more casual gear now, and Ben manages to stand up with enough time before Shawzy jumps on him that he doesn't get knocked into the bar and halfway into next week.

"Jeez, Andy, trying to concuss me before tomorrow? Cheating's not cool," Ben says, but he's grinning a mile wide and they all know he doesn't mean it.

"Nah, tomorrow we're just gonna kick your ass," Bicks says cheerfully, and peels Shawzy off Smitty so he can give him a bro hug of his own. 

That gets everyone moving, exchanging hugs and fist-bumps and even a few handshakes, and Ben catches Shawzy's wrist just before he can jokingly tip the Sharks cap off, lines drawn. They all settle a bit after that, and on Krugs' suggestion, move to take over a couple of tables rather than clumping up at the bar. Brandon doesn't find himself with a lot to say in the bigger group, just nursing his beer and listening to them all trash-talk each other, catching up with Smitty in between times, same as it ever was.

It's a good night, and even though they all knock it on its head early – comparatively speaking – he's still out like a light the second his head hits the pillow.

* * *

Usually Brandon's got as little love for early games as most guys; it throws his routine off, and it's difficult to eat right before a game that starts at 1pm. He's not as badly off as Seabs, who always looks even more unhinged than usual when he has to cram his pre-game superstitions in that early, but sometimes it does throw him for a bit of a loop too.

Something seems to have clicked for him that morning, though. He'd called his mom right after breakfast, setting up Skype in his dad's hotel room so they could both see her. Admittedly they'd only managed to talk for a couple of minutes, but it's still a good taste of home, and Brandon's always liked getting to carry that feeling out onto the ice with him. He gets in a quick nap and their pre-game meal, and by the time the bus pulls up outside the SAP Center he's more than ready to go; keeps catching himself tapping his fingers on his knees in time to his iPod, not quite able to sit still.

He gets some chances in the first, but nothing great; the second is where it really starts to click, Duncs putting one in on the power-play, and Brandon goes crashing into that goal celebration hug with an overwhelming feeling that they've got this one too, it's going to go their way. 

The Sharks get one more after that to tie it up again, and Seabs taps Crow's pads apologetically after the puck takes a weird hop off his stick and past him, but even though the scoreboard says they're tied, Brandon's confident that it's just a matter of time.

It takes till the third, but he's right, and it's immensely satisfying to get the game-winner on his stick, too. He sees the opening as their rookie dman catches an edge and goes down, and he's got Dillon at his heels, trying to backcheck but even when he dives at the last second Brandon manages to keep the puck on his stick, gets a good enough look at Niemi to elevate it, and then the puck hits the back of the net, like he couldn't have imagined it any better.

The Sharks keep pushing, and Smitty's actually kind of destroying them at the dot, which is probably some kind of karmic payback or something, but they can't make anything of their chances the rest of the way. Crow slams the door on them, and Bicks and Sharpy add insurance goals to boot, and when the final buzzer sounds they've gone 2 and 0 for the trip. It ’s a relief. Brandon's feeling pretty good about all of that, and a two point night for him personally doesn't hurt at all either.

The great thing about the early puck drop is they get back to their charter well before dinner time, taking off in clear daylight and everyone's riding high, feeding off the collective good mood. Brandon plays cards with a couple of the guys for a while, considers napping again and then discards that idea in favor of watching a movie on his iPad, borrowing a headphone splitter from one of the trainers so his dad can share with him. 

That keeps them busy before and after dinner, most of the way back east, and when Brandon looks up after talking through the credits it's to see that it's pitch black outside at last and half the team are asleep around them. It's not like you fully adjust to the later timezones on such a short roadie, so Brandon gets it, it does feel closer to midnight than dinner time to him, too, but he's still riding on that excess energy he's had all day, feeling it buzzing under his skin. 

Maybe he'll take a quick run when they get back. Or maybe he'll work up a sweat some other way. That'd be easier if Nick was around, sure, but Brandon's resourceful. It's probably over the top to actually put this much thought into planning to jerk off, but Brandon's been sharing a room for the last three nights, had his dad staying with him for the day before that, and, frankly, he's more than ready for some alone time. 

He's going to be the only one in the apartment, his dad electing to just stay out by the airport so he can get an early flight back to Pittsburgh in the morning, and while Brandon had been slightly disappointed by that when they'd been ironing out the plans in the first place, he's a little relieved now. 

They're a good hour out from Chicago still, and it will really be close to midnight when they get in, but they've got tomorrow off entirely, and Brandon's looking forward to sleeping in. 

* * *

With two wins and the late night getting back from the west coast, Q's given them the next day off entirely, and Brandon is idly planning to run some errands after he gets up. They haven't been on the road much this month, but he still feels like he hasn't spent a whole lot of time in his apartment recently, and he's pretty sure he should send out some dry cleaning again soon, too. 

He hugs his dad goodbye after everyone's retrieved their luggage at the airport, and feels for a moment like he's a kid again. It makes it harder to leave, even though he doesn't usually have much of a problem with homesickness. He knows he's going to see most of his family in town next month, regardless of how the season spins out, it's not like he's even going to be missing him for long. And Chicago has felt like home almost since he arrived; Brandon knows he's prone to putting down roots anywhere he settles for more than a couple of days, and it was even easier in Chicago, with the organization doing so much to look out for him, and teammates doing the same, from the casual way Tazer took him under his wing on the ice to the way Sharpy made sure he knew the best places downtown to eat or which stores were the easiest to get delivery from. Shawzy and Leds had hooked him up with their housekeeping service, too, and Brandon's not too proud to admit that that's probably the only reason his place is more than barely habitable most of the time. He likes to keep things neat, but he's also no more fond of cleaning than any other guy his age, and it's easier to just have to worry about picking his clothes up off the floor and pay someone else to do the dusting and vacuuming or whatever. 

Despite the late night, Brandon doesn't sleep as late as he expects to; he's up and showered and fucking around on his laptop a good hour earlier than he'd normally surface on an off day. His apartment would probably benefit from some sustained effort in putting things away and generally straightening things up – especially if he's going to have company tomorrow, maybe. That thought has Brandon eyeing his phone again, and then the time, and okay, yeah, he needs to sack up and actually talk to Nick already.

He goes back to the kitchen to pour himself another cup of tea first, and then it seems like he might as well mix himself a smoothie for later and leave it in the fridge while he's in there. That kills another five minutes, and then he has to admit that he's being kind of ridiculous, so he takes his mug back to the living room and settles on his couch.

Brandon flicks the TV on, leaving the volume low, and messages Nick; just their usual check in, and it's easy and familiar, _Hey, you free? I'm around for a couple hours._

He watches half a rerun of some cartoon he's pretty sure he's seen before, and is flicking through the TV guide – hey, maybe he can watch part of the Pirates game later – when his phone vibrates, rattling on the coffee table where he'd left it so he wouldn't pick it up and check every five minutes.

He flicks the app open, and Nick's replied to him, just a quick, "Yeah, I'm at home. You wanna call me?" 

It seems a little friendlier than some of their conversations have been this week, or maybe Brandon's just feeling brighter this morning, getting to sleep in his own bed and coming off a good road trip.

"Cool, can do," he sends back, and then flips to his contacts, finding Nick's name – still in his most frequently used numbers, there with his family and Vince and the half of the team that are permanently attached to their smart phones.

"Hey, it's me," he says when Nick answers the phone with a hello and his name, still Midwestern-polite, every time, even though he knows it's Brandon calling.

"How's your morning?" Brandon asks, because he can do polite small talk, too, and also, he really is curious. The other shitty thing about doing this long distance is all the dumb day-to-day stuff he never gets to see and get sick of or whatever most couples do. Sometimes he kind of wishes they could be at the point where they're arguing over who left wet towels on the floor or whatever. And other times he figures he maybe does just spend too much time with Shawzy and Chaunette.

Nick makes a noncommittal noise, which usually means he's been taking his time over breakfast, maybe watching TV and not doing much of anything. 

"You?" he asks. 

Brandon shrugs, stretching out his shoulders while he talks. "Eh, just got up really. There's cartoons on still, so I figure it's early enough." He lets that trail off, giving Nick a space to laugh with him if he's going to. "I'm gonna head out later, I think, maybe run along the lake. It's actually nice out again." 

It's actually starting to look like spring at last, and the sky's blue and there's bits of green starting to show through under the last piles of quickly-melting gray snow. Brandon hasn't got as far as opening a window or anything, but according to his phone it's a very reasonable number of degrees out there. Maybe he won't even need a windbreaker.

"Cool," Nick says, a little inanely. "It's pretty chilly here, still." He pauses, like he's about to say something else, but instead follows up with, "You had a good game yesterday. "

"Oh," Brandon says, a little surprised, but pleased. The Isles are on a homestand, and he knows they'd had a game last night too, he figured Nick would've been up in the press box watching his own team. "You were watching?"

"Uh, no, um," Nick says, "We had the Habs, and traffic's pretty bad getting to Nassau." He pauses for a second and Brandon doesn't have to be looking at him to know he's chewing on his lower lip before he goes on to add, "I just saw the box score this morning."

"Oh, right," Brandon says, obscurely disappointed. Of course, Nick has to be more concerned with his own team, with his own game when he gets back out on the ice. 

"How'd you guys do?" Brandon asks, because he hasn't actually really looked at how the rest of the league had gone this weekend yet. He knows they'll cover the Isles' recent games in video review tomorrow anyway, more than likely. 

"3-1," Nick says, and Brandon doesn't need to ask more than that; the tone's more than enough for him to get that it wasn't the Islanders who got three. 

"Sucks," Brandon says carefully. He wants to be sympathetic, and he's pretty sure that's a couple in a row the Isles have dropped now, which is always frustrating when you're playing, and worse when you can't. 

And it's going to mean they'll be even more desperate for points in Chicago, which is … awkward. It feels a lot more awkward than he remembers it being in December, at any rate. Or maybe they were both just too busy then, more interested in getting off and being wrapped up in each other with the end of the season too far away to be worth thinking about.

"Yeah," Nick agrees, biting it out, the one syllable harsh and almost explosive. "I just — I wish I could be out there. Fucking three in a row."

Brandon winces, yeah, that's. That sucks. 

"How are you —?" he starts to ask, wanting to be delicate about it but also kind of desperate to know. He's been thinking about this game since fucking October, and Nick must've been doing the same, a really obvious mark on the calendar. His first game back at the UC. Second game against the Hawks. 

And Brandon's been itching to turn the tables on them this time, would normally make the sort of friendly wager he'd make with Boller or Pirri or Mo, or maybe one that's a little more daring, since he is actually sleeping with Nick and all, but — it doesn't exactly feel like the right time to do that. 

More than anything, though, what he wants to ask is if Nick's playing. If Nick's going to even be in Chicago.

"Still out," Nick says, sounding exactly as thrilled by that news as Brandon is, and he can feel his stomach sinking. Even if it's been rough this week, he wanted to see Nick. "I asked, and they said at least two, maybe three more games."

"Fuck," Brandon says with feeling. He wants to say how much it's going to suck not to see Nick, but that's only going to make him feel worse about it, right? Brandon doesn't want to guilt trip him or whatever, it's not Nick's fault he got hurt either.

There's another pause in their conversation then, one that stretches out, and Brandon can't work out how to fill it without seeming clumsy and stupid.

"I'm traveling with the team, though," Nick says eventually, abruptly, and fuck, he couldn't have led with that?

"Oh," Brandon replies after a moment, swallowing hard and trying to get his voice to work properly again. He's a little choked up, congested, and it's hard to talk past that, buoyed by the relief of knowing Nick's still coming, but it still feels like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "That's- that's good. That's great. When do you — I guess we could do dinner if you don't have to be anywhere else?"

"Afternoon flight," Nick says, "I think we get there around three, so I guess, I dunno, we could grab a drink at Rockit around 7? Maybe food?"

It's somewhere familiar, somewhere they both know well, sure, Brandon can see the logic in that. It's also awfully public, which is — not as much what he was expecting, but clearly that's what Nick wants, so. Brandon will have to go along with that.

"Okay, sure," Brandon says, knowing he sounds less than enthused, but he's also finding it kind of hard to care. 

"I thought that would work for you," Nick says, his own tone sharp, and hey, Brandon's not the bad guy here, he's not the one who laid a dumb hit on Nick, or the one who apparently doesn't actually want to get any private time with the boyfriend he hasn't seen in almost two months.

"No, that's fine," Brandon says. 

"Yeah, you sound happy about it," Nick says, sarcastic in a way that Brandon has almost never heard him be. Nick's usually a distract or disengage type when it comes to most of the arguments you get in a group of guys that spend the majority of their waking hours together. He's seen him be short with Shawzy a couple of times, but that's about it, really.

"Oh, excuse me," Brandon replies, just as sarcastically, because if Nick can't take it then he shouldn't be dishing it out. "Glad you can find some time to hang out after all."

"Well, if you have something else you'd rather do, feel free." Nick's voice is tight with tension, like the words are fighting to get out. Brandon wonders for a moment what it is he's trying to hold back; it's clearly nothing good.

"You haven't wanted to talk all week," Brandon says, hoping he just sounds mad and not also hurt, even though actually saying that in no uncertain words hasn't actually helped settle the pit in his stomach that's been there through every slower-than-usual response and unreturned message over the last few days. "Why should I think you were going to actually start now?"

"Why should I …?" Nick repeats, "Fuck, Brandon."

"I thought it was your wrist that was hurt, not your ears," Brandon says, a little snidely, but he doesn't think anyone would blame him. "You couldn't pick up the phone a little more often?"

"I didn't want to bother you on the road," Nick says, "You didn't need me calling every five minutes. If I'd been playing we would've had even less time, it's almost the end of the season, Saader, we're both _busy_. I thought we were, you know. Keeping this realistic."

Brandon doesn't even know what that's supposed to mean. Maybe they should've talked about what this means more, what their relationship actually is; he'd always figured that they were on the same page, that they want the same things. It's always been fine when they actually see each other, it's just the rest of the time that it gets hard, or weird, and — maybe they're not actually meant to make this work long-distance after all. That thought isn't actually comforting at all, which Brandon's not exactly keen to examine more closely.

"Excuse me for liking to hear your voice occasionally," he finds himself saying, words pushing past before he can stop to reconsider them. "Didn't realize it was such a hassle."

"It's not — that's not it, Saader," Nick argues, "I just, you've got so much going on, you shouldn't—fuck, you shouldn’t have to stay in and wait around for me, you’re so much younger, and, I don’t know. Maybe this isn't a good idea after all. We hardly get to see each other as it is, and—"

"Don't fucking patronize me," Brandon interrupts, feeling every bit as young and uncertain as Nick's trying to imply he is, and really fucking pissed off about that. Nick ’s not even 25 yet, who does he think he’s calling young? "So maybe you've had more relationships than me, that doesn't fucking mean I just have to sit here and accept whatever you think is a good idea. Besides, you'll be here tomorrow anyway. How does that fucking change anything?"

"I'm only going because they said I should," Nick says, and Brandon's hand tightens on his phone so much that he's almost surprised he doesn't hear a protesting sound from the plastic. "I mean. There's press to do, and they asked if I wanted to, so — yeah, I said I'd travel with the team anyway."

"If all this is such a bad idea, then why'd you say yes?" Brandon bites out the words, furious, and almost certain he doesn't actually want to hear the answer to his question.

"I don't know, why would I want to see people I spent the last few years on a team with?" Nick's voice gets louder again, and even more bitterly sarcastic, and Brandon abruptly can't deal with any of this conversation. He's been looking forward to this week for so long and — this is everything he didn't want.

"Well, I'm sure the _team_ will be happy to see you," Brandon says. 

"Wait, Brandon —" Nick starts to say, sounding more like he usually does, that bitter edge gone from his tone, and if anything, that's actually harder for Brandon to hear. "It's not just— I've known most of them for years, you know? New York's great, but it's weird to be going back to Chicago again."

Brandon shouldn't be all that surprised, he knows. Of course it's weird for Nick to think about coming back to see the team that traded him away. It's understandable that he's kind of tense about seeing the guys he used to play with. It's not like Brandon wanted him to make a big deal about seeing him or anything, they haven't had that kind of relationship as friends or whatever they are now. But that seeing him isn't even factoring right now is — something. 

Good to know he's not all that special after all, he thinks, and has to take a deep breath so his voice doesn't waver noticeably. He takes a second breath, in and out, slowly, making himself relax, and stop digging his fingernails into the skin above his knee. Yelling at Nick again isn't going to solve anything.

"Sure," Brandon says, a little dully; his voice is echoing weirdly in his ears too. Must be a bad line. "I know everyone'll be happy to see you."

"Saader," Nick says again, sharply, and Brandon just can't do this right now.

"See you later," he says, ruthlessly letting himself talk over top of whatever Nick's trying to backpedal with, and he hangs up, hoping it just seems like he thought Nick was done talking. 

He's not going to dwell on whether this actually means they're done in general, and after he gives it a minute or two – his phone silent in his hand – Brandon puts it back down and goes to change into workout gear. He should go take a run before it gets too warm out, given the current forecast. He's glad that he's close enough to the lake to take advantage of the trails there.

* * *

Brandon's too used to fitting everything in his life around hockey to really let himself get too far inside his own head that night; he eats sensibly, goes to bed early, and even sleeps okay. He feels more tired than he has any reason to when he gets up the next morning, but he can mostly push it aside for the video session and through the on-ice practice that follows. He doesn't talk to anyone more than he has to, and no one seems to blink, so he's probably not acting too different to usual. 

He takes a nap when he gets home in the afternoon, sticking to his schedule, and it's not until after he wakes up that he has to actually stop and try to come to a decision. Technically, he has the evening free – no team events, and the only plans he's made are for a drink with Leds. If they're even still going to do that. There's been a distinct radio silence from Nick all day, and Brandon's not going to be the first one to break it. The idea of texting to check if they're still on for tonight leaves a bad taste in his mouth, acid-sharp. 

It's close to four when he changes out of sweats and a t-shirt after his nap, pausing overlong in front of his closet before taking out one of his nicer shirts and his favorite jeans. He's not committing to anything, not yet, but he leaves the shirt hanging from the doorknob in his bedroom, pulls on a battered Hawks shirt in the mean time and takes a book out onto his balcony so he can sit in the sun and pretend like he's taking in any of the words. It's nice enough out that he leaves the door open to air out the apartment, and the sun feels good enough that he does eventually relax again, too. He manages an hour or so outside before he can tell it's getting late enough that he needs to actually make up his mind.

He picks up his phone again, just to double check, and still nothing, not even a "landed" text, and nothing in the group text they're still all adding to intermittently either. Brandon finds himself drifting back to his room after that, and apparently his subconscious has made up its mind even if he's been trying not to think about it, because he changes into something a bit more suitable for River North and then spends a futile half hour in his bathroom trying to do something with his hair before deciding that he's being ridiculous.

He's closer than he likes to being late by the time he grabs his wallet and his phone, and  — after getting halfway out the door — goes back for a jacket just in case. It's warm enough now still that he's sweating even in shirtsleeves, but it looks like the weather's going to turn again, Chicago's gotta be Chicago after all.

Brandon spends most of the walk there trying very carefully not to think about whether _Nick's_ even going to show up. Even if things are tense between them right now Brandon has a hard time imagining that Nick would stand him up entirely, or leave him hanging like that, but then again he's not sure how well he does know Nick after all. 

He's about a minute or two late by the time he walks in through the doors, and Brandon takes a deep breath and reminds himself not to borrow trouble. It's light enough still that he can actually make an attempt to unobtrusively scan the crowd around the bar; the stools are all taken, and the crowd's a few people deep down near the register, but Nick's tall, he'll stand out. If he decided he wanted to show up, that is.

Brandon steps out of the doorway, figures he can at least get a drink, and then he recognizes a familiar silhouette by the end of the bar.

The relief that floods through Brandon's system at that; that Nick wants to be there, to see him, is enough to freeze him in place for a second, and he hopes no one notices that it takes effort to pull himself back together. And that pause gives him just enough time to see that what else Nick had wanted tonight was apparently a buffer.

Because he recognizes _several_ of the people at the bar, he sees belatedly; everyone left in Chicago who hung out together in Rockford, who went out for pregame sushi in Boston in 2013, everyone else who probably misses Leds almost as much as Brandon does.

He didn't, he thinks, actually check at any point with Nick that this was a date, that it was just the two of them. He'd assumed that Nick would see everyone at the UC tomorrow. It stings more than it should, and then Shawzy turns to wave at Brandon, and he gets his feet moving again, heads over to join them all. He can act like everything's normal for an hour or two.

Brandon lifts one hand to wave back at Andy, because even this early it's loud enough that he'd have trouble hearing anyone he's not standing right next to, and then there they all are, a loose group around the bar, most with drinks already in hand. And as much as he doesn't want to be obvious, Brandon's eyes are glued to Nick. Nick, who has a drink in one hand, leaning in to talk to Bicks, one wrist taped under his shirt sleeves, the edges just visible when the cuff rides up as he makes a gesture. 

He finishes up what he's saying to Bickell and turns towards Brandon. He's seen him already; Brandon hadn't missed the rapid shift of his glance when Andy had waved, but he's acting like he hadn't, saying, "Hey, Saader," and leaning in to give him a one-armed hug quickly around the top of his shoulders. He hasn't actually made eye contact yet, and this is, somehow, worse than Brandon had been imagining. 

"Hey Leds," he says evenly, "Good to see you. Been a while, huh?" And that was unfair, probably; reminding him that the last time they'd seen each other hadn't just been a boys weekend away, but if Nick's going to play dirty then Brandon's not above doing the same.

"Uh, yeah," Nick says, and tips his beer bottle back to take what has to have been quite a large gulp. Brandon's viciously pleased; he definitely won that point.

The fact he keeps catching himself watching Nick's throat move as he swallows is just. Not relevant.

"Sucks that you're out tomorrow," he adds after a moment; it's the truth and it gets them back on a slightly more normal conversational track. Shawzy chimes in then, bumping his shoulder easily into Nick's – on his good arm's side, at least, so Brandon doesn't have to add 'over-protective' to all the reasons he's being a complete weirdo this evening. 

Bicks hands him a drink, and Brandon nods his thanks – that is the good thing about how often they're all out together, pretty much everyone knows what everyone else orders, and he doesn't fancy waiting for the bartender to get free. The beer is cold enough to feel even better after getting some sun in the afternoon and then walking; Brandon drinks half of it faster than is probably smart. When he looks up again Nick's looking past him, but Brandon's not sure what at. He wouldn't have expected anyone else to be turning up.

They shift to a table when one frees up; probably faster than it would have normally, but Brandon's really not going to argue with the perks of being a Blackhawk tonight, it just makes it easier. He slides in next to Bicks, and Shawzy piles in on his other side, elbow sharp in Brandon's side. The fact he's not beside Nick; not pressed against him by virtue of the seating is good, it makes it easier to hold up his end of the conversation and act like everything's normal, just catching up with a friend, just like they'd done last week in San Jose. 

The fact that that means instead Nick's directly opposite him and inadvertently does make eye contact after they've been sitting for a while is less helpful.

Carcillo and Leds are both bonding over being stuck up in the press box, "I get to skate tomorrow at least," Nick is saying when Brandon tunes back into the conversation all the way.

Danny just looks jealous, and Brandon can definitely sympathize with that. They've been doing okay again recently, sure, but it's still not the same as having a fully healthy team. And it's frustrating as hell to not be able to do anything but watch. That makes him feel a little ashamed; he knows Nick has to feel something similar, especially with the Isles on a three game skid right now. He should probably cut him a little more slack.

They keep the conversation lighter after than, just the normal sort of stuff they'd talk about over any meal, which means it's a lot about food and a lot of trash-talking.

"We eating here?" Bicks asks when a slightly harried looking waiter comes by for a second time to take drinks orders and ask if they're ordering food.

"Fine by me," Shawzy says, and the others chime in, agreeing; the menu hasn't changed much recently which means they're all pretty familiar with it still, although Nick grabs the paper copy to refresh his own memory.

The beer and decidedly not thinking about it have mellowed Brandon's mood out a little, and he's almost enjoying himself again – if nothing else, it's so good to have Nick be right there, they've been friends a lot longer than they've been fucking, and Brandon misses that as much as he does everything else.

And then Bicks reaches over to try and steal a green pepper off the side of Nick's plate, gets his hand smacked away for his trouble and Shawzy just points out he needs to get used to it since he's a parent now and everything. Brandon's not totally sure what the logic is there, but probably there was some. Everyone's laughing, light and friendly like they won't be on opposite sides of the ice tomorrow – metaphorically speaking, anyhow – and Bicks says, "this was a great idea, Leds, thanks for the invite."

Nick ducks his chin and shrugs, just like always, and Brandon hadn't realized he'd cataloged so damn many of his mannerisms. "All good. Sorry the other guys couldn't make it too, I guess."

"Well, it was pretty short notice," Bicks says. "You're lucky Amanda wanted a night to herself too, she was thrilled to kick me out for a couple hours."

"Yeah," Shawzy says, "this whole two hours notice thing is real New York, Ledpipe, way to blend in."

Brandon can't totally hide his reaction to that, looking up from his plate to stare at Nick before he remembers that he shouldn't. He'd assumed it was his screw up, that Nick had texted everyone else yesterday, or this morning, or — something. That he just assumed they'd have tonight and see the team before the game tomorrow. But if Nick hadn't actually invited anyone else until this afternoon—

Nick's biting his lip, looking down at the table, even though he's saying something to Shawzy that makes it clear he's at least still listening to what they're all saying. He won't look at Brandon, though, and that fucking hurts.

"Hey," Brandon says, clearing his throat, nudging Shawzy, "Let me out? I gotta hit the bathroom."

"Sure," Shawzy says, and slides over long enough for Brandon to get out, walking around the tables and over to the stairs, heading for the men's room completely on autopilot. He just needs a moment, he needs to get his head together with no one looking at him.

The door to the bathroom's hardly closed behind him, cutting off the majority of noise from the bar before it opens again. Brandon takes a step towards the sink, figuring he can at least kill some time splashing water on his face and washing his hands before he has to walk back out and face everyone again. He sidesteps to let the guy who's just walked in get past, moving out of the way automatically, but then Nick says, "Saader —" and Brandon looks up, heart-rate going a hundred miles an hour all of a sudden, because Nick's right there, in touching distance and actually looking at him now.

"What the fuck," Brandon says, because seriously.

"I —" Nick starts, and then stops again, biting his lip, pretty hard by the look of it where the skin's going white around his teeth. "Thank you for showing up," he says eventually.

"Well yeah," Brandon says, still unable to get his tone completely under his control, words sharper and giving away more than he'd like. "I wanted to see you."

"I wasn't sure —" Nick starts to say, and then he looks mad when Brandon barks a disbelieving laugh at that.

"What, you wanted an engraved invitation?" Brandon says, warming up now. "'Please come over to my apartment and fuck me' ? Just if you can find the time, of course, don't let me _inconvenience_ you."

"It's not like that," Nick replies, "I don't just — you're not fucking _convenient_ , Brandon."

"Well, yeah," Brandon says. "That was clear enough when it was too much trouble to even return my fucking messages."

"I was busy," Nick protests, but he's evading Brandon's eyes again, which makes it even easier than usual to tell that he's hiding something.

Brandon shrugs, trying to play it cool, even though the fact is he's using every scrap of control he has to not be yelling any of this. "Hey, I understand if you want to find someone closer to home, just don't fucking — don't lie to me about it, that's all."

"I don't — I wasn't," Nick starts furiously, trying to defend himself, and then they both hear the rattle of the doorknob. Frankly, they were damn lucky no one else has interrupted them yet, and Brandon's bracing himself to turn away and try to act like everything's normal when Nick makes a low, angry noise and then shoves him into one of the stalls.

He's surprised enough that he actually goes, not braced at all to resist, and Nick follows him in, closing the door a little too hard behind them both before they hear the faint tap of dress shoes on tiles, as whoever it is walks into the bathroom, heading into the stall next to the one they're in.

Brandon realizes he's holding his breath, which is kind of stupid, and that Nick still has both hands tight on his upper arms. 

"What?" he mouths, when he looks up to see Nick's looking at him still, and obviously it's going to look suspicious if they make noise, if anyone finds them like this; talk about a compromising situation, but Nick still just looks tense, and mad, and way too close. And it's that which is enough to make him actually begin to comprehend just how small the space he and Nick are jammed into is, hardly enough for two people unless they're standing very, very close. 

Brandon's heard of people claiming to hook up in club bathrooms and he's always figured it sounded like more trouble than it was worth, trying to do anything fun in a space this big, and — thinking about that was a stupid idea, because now he's looking at Nick's mouth again, and he's still mad, and confused, all over a tiny hollow core of hurt, but at the same time, he's missed him _so much_.

Nick must've been thinking along similar lines, because his face twists up in a way that Brandon really can't read, but then he's leaning into Brandon even more heavily, so they're both braced against the wall. There's a long, charged moment before Nick mutters "fuck," under his breath, barely audible even to Brandon who's mere inches away, and then he leans the rest of the way in, enough to press their mouths together. 

Brandon considers pulling away for a whole half second, but he can't lie to himself enough to think that he's actually going to; it feels too good after weeks of no one else to touch like this. Instead, he gets his hands on Nick and hauls him even closer, fists bunching up in his shirt. Nick makes a sound in the back of his throat as Brandon accidentally gets some skin with that too, kissing harder as Brandon rubs his thumb apologetically over the jut of bone along his collar.

Nick's beard is rough against his face; everything aggressive, kissing hard and hot and hungry, and Brandon can't help but respond to that, pushing back and giving as good as he's getting. It ’s more of a turn-on than it maybe should be, but Nick looks good, and he feels good, pressing Brandon into the solid wall, holding him steady. Brandon’s sweating, worked up first by anger and then arousal, too warm with Nick plastered to him like this, and it feels even better when Nick gets a hand on the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, short nails scratching at his scalp. Brandon makes a pleased noise against Nick’s mouth and kisses him some more, his own hands getting adventurous, tugging at the hem of Nick’s shirt so he can slide them underneath it.

The door slamming as whoever it was walks out is like a shock of cold water, the rude interruption of reality coming back in, because seriously, _what the hell_ is he doing? What are  _they_ doing? 

“Leds, wait,” Brandon says, getting his hands between them — on top of Nick’s shirt, this time — and pushing him back a little. Giving himself room to breathe. “This isn’t— this is a bad idea.”

“Right,” Nick says, and he still looks unsteady.

For a heartbeat Brandon just wants to kiss him again, except then he remembers that he ’s actually mad at him, and that dumb moves like making out in a bathroom like they’re careless teenagers aren’t actually going to solve anything.

“Why did you invite everyone else?” Brandon asks after a moment, because Nick hasn’t actually told him anything yet, nothing he needed or wanted to know, anyway.

Nick drops his gaze again, and Brandon can practically feel him pulling back. 

“I wanted to see them too,” he says, and it’s not a lie, sure, but it’s not the whole truth, either, and Brandon is just so tired of these evasions and half-measures.

“And?” Brandon says pointedly. Nick doesn’t answer.

“Two hours ago this was a date,” Brandon says, keeping his voice low just in case. God, there are so many better places they could be having this argument. Except their teammates — well, his teammates — are out there and Brandon can’t do this in front of them, so it looks like they’re stuck for now. “So what changed?”

Nick won ’t look at him, again — still — and he doesn’t seem to have a ready answer, either. Brandon’s not sure if that’s because he doesn’t want to answer or because he can’t, but neither of those are good enough reasons for the way Nick’s been acting; not today, not most of this week. 

“I’d ask if you still wanted to do this,” Brandon says eventually, “but that’s not the problem, is it?” 

Not with the way that Nick had been almost desperate, frantic to touch once they were alone; the way he won ’t look at Brandon when they’re around other people is the thing that’s changed, and the way Nick had arranged it so they wouldn’t _be_ alone — it’s so different to how they’d been in Mexico that he almost can’t believe it. 

All Brandon can think is that the distance is finally wearing them down, that Nick must want someone he can see more, whenever he wants, not just whenever the schedule ’s kind — or deeply unkind, in this case. Fuck the fucking Maple Leafs, Brandon thinks again, not for the first time. Although if this is the way it’s going to be then maybe it’s better to happen now rather than later. Brandon doesn’t want to be dealing with this shit in the playoffs. 

Brandon would also like to still have a boyfriend by the time they hit the post-season, but you can ’t always get what you want.

“Brandon,” Nick starts, and he still has one hand on Brandon’s side, though the other has fallen away, fingertips sliding away from the nape of his neck, hand moving back to his side, and Brandon both misses the intimacy of that touch and is fiercely glad that Nick’s not trying to lie to him that way still.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Brandon asks after a moment, and he’s proud of how evenly the words come out, still and quiet, barely louder than the ambient music echoing in from the bar. 

“This got serious so fast,” Nick says, and fuck, Brandon thinks, feeling like he’s just been punched in the stomach, all the air rushing out of his lungs at once, fuck, that’s not a no. “I don’t— you shouldn’t have to be waiting around for me all the time, you should get to go out and have fun, and—”

“I do go out,” Brandon interrupts. “I don’t— what the fuck, Nick?”

Nick looks as miserable as Brandon feels, and fuck, they really need to get back out to the other guys soon, he thinks. It ’s going to look more and more suspicious the longer they’re both gone. 

“I just think you’d be better off,” Nick says. “I mean, we can still hook up sometimes if you, want, just—”

And Brandon ’s just done, at that point; torn between wanting to make Nick feel better — and fuck, that’s pathetic — and between kind of wanting to punch him, for pulling this now of all times, and without any real warning.

“I need to go,” he says. 

Brandon doesn ’t want or need to hear the end of whatever little speech Nick’s been practicing — and he has been, every line of his body says this is something he’s been working over. Practicing it for probably a week now, Brandon thinks dully. He shoves Nick away, back into the thin partition between the stalls, grabs for the door — which they hadn’t even locked properly, fuck, they’re lucky or stupid or both — and walks out. 

Nick doesn ’t say anything, and Brandon doesn’t look back.

He swings by the booth where the other guys are sitting; if he vanishes without a word he ’s going to hear about it all day tomorrow and that’s the last thing he needs. 

“Hey, I feel like shit,” he says to Shawzy, who happens to be closest. “I’m gonna head home now, see you guys later, yeah?”

He must not look great, because for a wonder Andy doesn ’t even chirp him a little, just punches him in the arm lightly and says, “Sure thing, Saader. You okay to get yourself home?”

“Yeah, I called for a car already,” Brandon lies, surprised by how easy it is to just roll with this. “Sorry, hey, say bye to Leds for me?” and he grabs a couple of bills out of his wallet and shoves them at Andy for his part of the bill. Someone else would’ve been able to cover him for sure if he’d just left, but he’d rather not owe anyone a favor right now.

“Later,” Shawzy says, and the other guys chorus in variations on that too, before turning back to whatever conversation they’d been having before he got back. 

None of them had done that quick, awkward subject change as he approached the table that would cover up the fact they ’d been talking about him, and none of them are smooth enough to avoid doing that if they had been, so it looks like they’ve actually got away with vanishing for ten minutes or however long it had been.

Brandon ’s body unhelpfully reminds him that however long it was, it wasn’t long enough, because apparently not even getting metaphorically kicked in the nuts is enough to totally wash out the effects of what they’d started in the bathroom, and— now Brandon’s thinking about that again, great. It’s really fucking unfair that he can be so damn fed up with Nick and still want him this much.

* * *

Brandon makes it home fairly quickly, kicks his shoes off and changes back into a thin t-shirt and sweats. He stretches out on the couch and flips the TV on to one of the movie channels, looking for something he ’s seen a hundred times before. Nothing much is on this early, and he doesn’t particularly want to do anything that involves a lot of concentration.

Brandon picks at the hem of the cushion stuffed against the arm of the couch, worrying at the loose threads where the zip's coming apart. It got stuffed halfway down the back of the couch and caught on some of the metal framework for the foldout bed a few months ago, and started tearing then, so it's been — it's been coming apart since he and Nick fooled around on the couch over Christmas. Brandon doesn't exactly love the metaphor, but now he's thinking about it it's hard to focus on much of anything else; thinking about how good Nick's weight felt on top of him, hands moving quick and sure underneath his clothes, how simple and easy it was to kiss him, fall apart with him, _be_ with him.

And here they are three months later and Brandon doesn't even know the next time they'll actually get to see each other. 

He turns the TV off, desperate to get out of his own head again, and it's sure not doing the trick. He eats mechanically, finishing up some of the ready-to-eat meals he ’d had in the fridge for later in the week, and rather than moping around his kitchen for the third or fourth time this week, he figures he’ll just get an early night. He packs quickly; they’ll be going straight to the charter from the UC, may as well do it now rather than in a rush tomorrow morning, and that kills a whole half hour. 

His phone rings while he ’s tossing up which tie to throw into the garment bag, and he’s glad that he lives alone because for whatever reason it trips his startle reflex; sometimes it’s nice not to have other people see everything you do. 

When Brandon picks it up, the caller ID just says  “Leds” and he freezes, thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment, before he turns and throws the phone onto his bed. He’ll look at it later. Nick can see how much he likes it when people won’t fucking talk to you.

It's probably too late to go for a run or even a walk, especially before a game day, but he winds up walking circles in the apartment for a while, till he's pretty sure his dad would just tell him he's going to wear a hole in the carpet. 

He ignores two more calls over the next hour, letting the phone ring out. Just when he thinks maybe Nick ’s got the message now and stopped trying, his phone vibrates against the sheets. He probably should just keep ignoring it, but curiosity gets the better of him, and he picks up, knows that all he’s really doing is poking at the bruise.

There ’s a little icon on his status bar, a notification for a text message beside the string of ‘missed call’ ones. Probably Nick will be able to see he’s opened it, but Brandon decides he doesn’t care and clicks it open anyway.

“That didn’t go how I meant,” Nick’s message reads. “Can we please talk about this?”

Because that ’s gone so well for them lately.

Brandon throws his phone back in the general direction of his bed and then winces when it bounces and rolls onto the floor with a thud. He ’s being kind of childish, sure, but even knowing that, he can’t seem to actually stop. He’s holding his breath when he reaches down to pick it up again, and okay, he’s lucky, nothing’s broken. That’s frustrating in its own way, though, he almost wants to break something right now. 

He fights back the urge to kick something, frustration boiling up in his chest, and then thinks, 'Fuck it', and goes to shower again. He jerks off in the shower, fast and almost mechanical, eyes closed and firmly focused on just getting off, not thinking about anything in particular, grounding himself in the sensation of being touched, letting his body's reactions take over.

He manages that just fine until his control slips for just a second, flashing back to how good Nick's hands feel, and then it's too late; he's coming, breathing far too fast, and when he braces himself against the side of the shower with one hand he realizes that he's still shaking, faint muscle tremors running from wrist to shoulder. 

Brandon growls under his breath; he needs to stop thinking about this now. Going over and over it isn ’t helping him feel any better, just tired and shaky on top of unsettled, but there's only so far he can let himself indulge in this pity party, so after giving himself a final pep talk – in a tone that really is way closer to Tazer's than he's necessarily comfortable with – he crawls into bed and pulls the blankets up over his head like he's twelve years old again and trying to hide. 

It ’s mostly dark in his room, just the usual reflections of streetlights and some ambient noise filtering through the soundproofing, but even though he’s tired, looking down the short end of the long season, he can’t fall asleep right away. 

Before too long it ’s too hot under the blanket, and Brandon kicks it down a little, moves restlessly, rolling onto his back to see if that’s any better. He stares up at his ceiling and tries to get his brain to stop concentrating on things he has no control over. He needs to rest, game day tomorrow, but all he can hear is Nick telling him they got too serious too fast. Nick saying ‘we can still hook up if you want’. If Brandon wants. Fuck.

Brandon rolls over again, tries to shove his face into the pillow, eyes closed tight, the cotton briefly cool against his cheeks until his whole face feels too-warm and damp from trying to breathe through it. He ’s still wound up, still a little turned on, even though he doesn’t feel the slightest bit in the mood, and his mind is going in circles. It’s hard not to remember that he should’ve been in bed with Nick now, or at least as long as possible, riding right up against the edge of what they could get away with given the curfew. If the Isles might have even let Nick argue he still has a place here and could ‘go home’ for the evening then Brandon could’ve woken up with him, too.

He shifts restlessly, moving onto his back again. The sheets tangle around his legs, and he has to breathe through the urge to just yank at them, pulls everything carefully back into order, without tearing them. Nothing ’s irreparably broken tonight, Brandon hopes. He should try to keep that trend going. 

‘If you want,’ Brandon thinks again. Of course he fucking wants. He’d thought that was all they could have at first, sure, but now that he’s had more than that he doesn’t want to go back. 

And then, the way Nick had said  ‘You shouldn’t wait around for me,’ practiced and wooden like words from a really shitty script. Like an even more passive-aggressive version of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’. Of all the times for Leds to get all Minnesota Nice. 

Brandon closes his eyes again and determinedly focuses on relaxation exercises; this is not the time to dwell on all of this. He can deal with it later. And eventually, he does fall asleep.

* * *

When he wakes up the next morning  — about five minutes before his alarm, not bad — he feels a little better. Not great, but like he can at least fake it till he makes it. It’s going to be a long, busy day; they’ve got team meetings and then the morning skate, and then the Islanders have the ice after them. Brandon’s not sure if it’s going to be better or worse if he can avoid Nick all morning. 

He gets through the morning skate okay, thinks he ’s managed to act normal, but when they’re changing after they’re done Shawzy tosses a ball of tape at him and says, “Coming to say hi to Leds?”

There ’s no way Brandon can say no to that without inviting the types of questions he doesn’t want to answer, not after running out on them last night. Even so, he has to just follow quietly and try to keep his expression blank when Bicks says, “Maybe he’ll be more chatty this morning,” and Crow points out, “Well, it has to be kind of weird to be back here.”

“That was weirdly quiet even for Leds,” Shawzy says, looking slightly grim about it, “he wasn’t like that when we got lunch last year.”

Brandon just hopes no one ’s looking at him. 

They lurk outside the visitors dressing room, and their timing is pretty great  — or terrible, depending on your point of view — because the Isles show up about a minute later. His teammates all rib Nick a little as he waves and comes over to see them, but they sound like they’re in pretty good spirits, it’s just regular chirping. Brandon’s glad that Nick’s teammates appreciate him.

Brandon doesn ’t say a whole lot, and he does lean in to hug Nick when he’s going round the group of them, exchanging back-pats and shoulder punches and fist-bumps, even though he’d seen half these guys last night and he’ll probably see the rest of them hanging around the stands when the Isles get out onto the ice. If it was anyone else, Brandon would stick around to chirp an ex-teammate for a couple of minutes, easy. Nick doesn’t pause for more than a split second when he gets to Brandon in the loose group that’s cluttering up the hallway, and if he’s tenser than he should be when they hug, well, Brandon’s the only one who can tell that. 

It ’s a weird moment and then it’s over, and then Bailey sticks his head out around the dressing room door — clearly the nominated representative — and says, “get a move on, Leds,” with a grin. And it’s easy and friendly as anything, but just like that Nick’s turning to grin at him, and lifting one hand in a half wave at Brandon and the other Hawks, and heading back into the visitor’s room; categorically and emphatically not actually theirs any more. Brandon feels a little queasy. He’d really thought he was okay with that, but apparently he needed to see it to really take it in.

Nick stops in the doorway, though, looks back at them and makes eye contact with Brandon, his expression serious, with just the tiniest hint of concern in the way he draws his eyebrows together.  “Hey, Saader, call me later?”

“Yeah,” Brandon says casually, not sure yet if he means it, and then they’re walking back to their own dressing room to finish up before clearing out until the pre-game. 

If someone asks what ’s on his mind he’s going to answer ‘how to drown out Shawzy and Versteeg’s rendition of ‘Call Me Maybe’ ‘, but that’s only really about fifty percent of what he’s thinking about. Although they are awfully tone-deaf today, even by their standards. Probably it’s better Smitty isn’t here to suffer through this with him.

* * *

Brandon heads home for lunch, and he ’s tossing up whether to sack out on the couch for a while or just go back to bed already. The couch wins because he knows if he naps for too long it’ll just leave him tired and cranky — well, crankier — and he wants to be in good shape for the game that night.

He _really_ wants to have a good game. He doesn ’t exactly want to examine his reasons for that too closely, somewhere between showing Nick what he’s missing out on and hurting him on the scoreboard too; whatever it is, he’s not proud. There’s a fine line between showing off and fucking up; he wants to stay on the right side of that line.

He picks up his laptop in the hopes of distracting himself for a bit. He can watch some of the weird shit half the guys from the Spirit link on their Facebooks, or, well, anything at all to kill some time and let himself chill out. The internet ’s good for that. Of course, he finds himself looking at CSN ten minutes later anyway, and even though he knows it’s a terrible idea, apparently this week he’s just given up entirely on any form of self-discipline.

It ’s masochistic and he knows it, but he clicks into an interview with Nick without even stopping to second-guess himself. He tries to read through the text but that’s not the draw there, really, so instead he just scrolls back up and waits for the video to start. 

He gets a minute in, Nick fielding questions from familiar beat reporters, warm and quiet, a little more confident maybe than he ’d been in that scenario since he was a rookie himself. His gaze is steady on the camera most of the time; he only ducks his chin and looks away once or twice, looking back up through his eyelashes in a way that Brandon has a visceral response to, recognizes as Nick’s attempt to deflect a question he’s less comfortable with. They ask him how he’d feel about facing the Hawks for the Final, and it’s a soft ball really, a gimme, but the way he lights up in response— Brandon makes a noise he’s really not proud of and slams his laptop shut.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath after that, and even then he feels off-balance. It ’s grating to find that even though he’s still hurt, still angry, he can’t actually resent the way Nick looks so calm and right, settled with his team.

* * *

The game against the Isles starts out well enough for the Hawks; Brandon gets his stick in the lane to intercept a pass across the slot on his first shift and gets the puck safely out of their end. He ’s matched up against Tavares a few times to start, and that’s a rush; it’s fun to defend against someone who’s that strong on their skates and that creative, Brandon figures it must be what playing against Tazer is like. It’s a challenge to get his teeth into, and it’s even more fun to get possession and maintain it, making the Isles’ top line spend most of their shift trapped in their own zone and not leaving them enough time to get any attacking zone time. 

Brandon gets a good chance early on, too, picks the puck up at the Hawks ’ blueline, with enough of a step on the backchecking forwards that it’s just the third d-pair between him and the net. He tries to split the D, manages to get between Strait and Donovan but the puck takes a funny hop and gets away from him. Hossa and Toews are both playing lights-out, though, taking the lion’s share of the Hawks’ shots, and Neuvirth’s had to be sharp to keep the score tied at 0-0.

If Brandon was to guess what had happened in the Islanders room earlier that day, he ’d figure that Nick's put a good face on for most people — that was obvious enough in the interviews he’d done with all the Chicago beats — but he’s clearly talked to his D partner, or maybe even a couple of the guys. Brandon’s line has been out against Hamonic and Hickey for most of the first, and there’s an edge to the way they’re laying the body that's not normally there in a regular season game between two different conferences. Boychuk in particular seems to have a bead on Brandon any time they’re on the ice together, although in the first period at least that’s not often, and it’s Hamonic who nails him against the boards with a minute or two to go in the first. Brandon takes a split-second to shake it off, before turning and racing back to pursue the puck.

They start the second period much the same, Brandon out with Teuvo and Vermette as the puck drops and they get under way again. Five minutes later, Shawzy does something that Brandon misses  — and so does half the crowd, judging by the tone of the jeers that rise up as the officials whistle the play dead. The jumbotron has nothing all that illuminating to offer either, whatever it was happening far enough behind the play that it doesn’t look like anyone had a camera on it, but after the initial skate of shame over to the box they’re waving Shawzy back to the bench, and O’Halloran skates over to tell the coaching staff that it’s a 5 minute major, for head-butting.

“Jesus, Shawzy,” Brandon thinks, and grits his teeth as he hops over the boards to take the first shift of what is going to be a critical PK. He gets tied up along the boards for a long time, but that’s time off the clock if nothing else, and by the time he makes it back to the bench it’s to get a silent, approving shoulder pat from Q before he strides away to yell instructions to the second PK rotation. 

They kill the penalty off, and the crowd roar their appreciation; Brandon ’s not going to look away from the ice but he’s got enough peripheral vision to see that most of them are rising to applaud. 

That ’s nearly all for naught later in the second, though; the Hawks haven’t managed to put more than a couple shots on the board, the Isles coming hard with pressure, and Brandon races back into his own zone to pursue a puck — which Crow comes well out of his crease to dive on, and Brandon only sees him moving in just enough time to leap over him. Considering Lee had managed to run into him back in the first too, Brandon would prefer to not follow up on that with friendly fire. Crow gets the puck, at least, so they haven’t given up a goal or put anyone on IR. Brandon circles back to have a word with him before they set up for the next face off; they need to communicate better than that, and he says as much. Crow’s gruff in response, but isn’t wearing the patented goalie death glare Brandon’s seen him deploy on the occasions when they really fuck up in front of him, so he taps him on the pads and says, “Good talk,” before heading back to the bench. 

With Shaw getting ejected they ’re short a forward for well over half the game, and Brandon winds up double-shifting some of it, Teuvo picking up some extra minutes as well. Crow’s standing up tall under a barrage from the visitors, giving them nothing, and the Hawks come out of the second up 3-0.

Capuano starts shifting some of his lines around in the third, trying to find an edge to get back into the game, and Brandon sees a few shifts against Boychuk early in the third. He ’s talking a lot, almost all of his chirps directed straight at Brandon, which is more than a little unnerving. 

Brandon ’s on the ice when they give up a goal against, gets caught half a step behind as the play develops off a quick turnaround, and Duncs goes down to block the shot and doesn’t manage to get enough of it. It’s frustrating to give up one when they’ve been playing so tightly until then, denying the Isles any good scoring chances and forcing them to keep most of their shots to the outside. 

Hossa ends up in the box on a weak call almost immediately after that, and this is exactly the danger zone they need to avoid; a second goal here would give the Isles every chance to get back into it. The Isles power-play unit gets into the Hawks zone and sets up, passing the puck around, and then a bad pass from the half-boards squirts right between the two guys up high along the blueline, and Brandon spots his chance and goes for it. He ’s got enough speed to chase them down in the neutral zone, a chance at a short-handed break, but Boychuk is all over him every step of the way, shoving and chirping and trying to stick-check him. Brandon can’t get an angle to shoot off the rush so he takes the puck around in a loop behind the net, and Boychuk leans in to shove at his shoulder, getting his glove up into Brandon’s face just as he’d like to be trying for the wraparound.

Brandon snaps and shoves him back, fed up, and hisses "What ’s your fucking problem?" and Boychuk –– who probably has more reason to have no love for the Chicago Blackhawks than literally any other guy on the Isles roster — just puts his shoulder into Brandon in one last shove and growls "Don't mess with his head." 

Boychuk takes off after the puck, and Brandon's stomach twists, because this is exactly why they never did this before, exactly why they shouldn't have been doing it now, because now he's thinking about Nick during a game and being worried and angry and feeling sick, and that's — this isn't what he's meant to be doing. This isn't his _job_ , and he ruthlessly shoves those feelings back down and makes himself just stop thinking about it. All that he needs to focus on right now is the puck and his teammates and getting two points.

And not thinking about whatever it is that Johnny Boychuk knows about him.

By the time there ’s only about ten minutes left in regulation they have the game well in hand. Brandon hasn't got a point yet, and with the goal they’d given up, the shots he hasn’t made, the short-handed chance he fumbled because of Boychuk— logically he knows he’s had a solid game, that the PK on the major is what kept the game in their hands, but it feels like a game where he should have done _better_. 

The clock's winding down and he can tell just looking at the Islanders bench that none of them really think they've got a 3 goal comeback in them today, they're just kind of done, and it should be more satisfying than it is, instead he's just frustrated and unhappy still, and it really doesn't help when Boychuk lines him up for another hit in the last couple of minutes. Brandon manages to sidestep so Boychuk mostly gets the glass, but he ’s still close enough to hear the “Fucking fix it, kid,” that he hisses. Brandon chews on his mouth guard with more venom than usual and tries not to hear anything but what his own teammates are saying.

Tazer gives him an extra head-pat as they head back through the bench to the locker room after saluting the crowd; Brandon ’s not sure what prompted that, but it’s not like he’s going to ask. And hopefully no one else heard anything, or if they did they won’t ask him about it, either.

He thinks that's as bad as it's going to get, but he's sitting in his stall, trying to shake the mood, or at least not get it on anyone else  — they just had a really nice, solid win at home, important points in the lead up to the post-season, on a team that had frustrated them badly earlier in the season — and then Seabs bumps Oduya with his hip to get him out of the way for a second. Johnny just blinks at him and then wanders over to talk to Krugs, and sometimes Brandon really misses Smitty, because at least then he didn't get shut out of Swedish PK bonding time entirely. 

When Brandon tilts his head, raises an eyebrow to invite Seabs to go ahead with whatever is on his mind, Seabs just claps one big hand on Brandon's bare shoulder and says, "Saader. Figure out whatever ’s eating at you already, huh?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm working on it," Brandon says, gritting his teeth a little and feeling like a raw rookie again for the first time in a long while. Fuck. He — he can't really blame Seabs; he was slightly off and they know him well enough to be able to tell, but. Yeah, he needs to fix this one way or another, because when it's affecting his game it is actually everyone's problem. Brandon hates being anyone else's problem. He'd much rather sort his shit out without witnesses or anyone leaning over his shoulder, but apparently  _that_ ship has sailed. 

He finishes changing at top speed after that, trying not to meet anyone's eyes or get drawn into conversation. None of the beats want to talk to him; it's not like he's done anything special tonight anyway, why would they, and he's able to get out to the bus in record time. No one else is even there yet, though he can see the equipment guys loading up the trailers parked beside them outside the window. It ’s the longest moment of almost-privacy that he’s had since the morning skate — his afternoon nap really didn’t count — and he should probably use it to do some thinking.

He wrestles with himself a moment and then gives in; maybe talking to someone else would help. He dials Trocheck without even stopping to reconsider, but the call rings out and goes to voice mail, and when Brandon swears and pulls up the schedule on his phone he realizes that, yeah, the Panthers have a game. He scrolls down further and winces; the Sharks are currently getting their asses kicked by the fucking Jets, so even if he did want to admit that Ben was right about him –– had been right about them, or at least up until now he has been; Brandon's not actually totally sure Nick's going to be talking to him again any time soon – he's out as an option right now, and he's probably not going to be in the mood to discuss Brandon's dumb relationship problems afterward, either. He quails at the thought of calling his mom, that's just too — no, just no. 

Brandon ’s quiet on the bus ride, keeps to himself when they all troop over to the charter, and he grabs a window seat instead of his usual aisle and tries to just fall asleep after they’ve taken off. Or at least, look like he’s asleep so no one else will try to talk to him. For once, his teammates are actually being relatively considerate — it’s a little late in the regular season for most shenanigans, and the playoffs stress that sometimes comes out in immature pranks and close-to-the-line chirping is a ways off still.

He pulls headphones and an eye mask on and tries to relax, eyes closed even if his brain won ’t stop working, but he still feels off, like he can’t get comfortable. He shifts in the seat a few times, probably kicks the back of Hossa’s seat once or twice so he leans forward to check if he’s still awake and apologize, but when he settles back into the seat after getting a ‘don’t worry’ from Hoss he finds Tazer is now sitting right next to him, and pulling a face that Brandon kind of wants to make fun of, or at least he would if he felt a tenth less terrible right then. Brandon’s really not in the mood for another Awkward Feelings Talk with Johnny.

“Funny, Darls didn’t look like this five minutes ago,” Brandon says; a little snippier than he’d normally be with his captain. He’s had a tough week. 

“You forgot your pillow,” Tazer says, and hands him one. That’s apparently all he actually wanted to say, because after giving Brandon a second, long look, he turns back to face Sharpy on the other side of the aisle and falls into conversation with him.

_That was weird_ , Brandon thinks, but he stuffs the pillow between his head and the curving wall of the plane, wrapping his arms around the lower end to hold it in place. It ’s a small change, but that’s apparently enough to let him feel like he’s actually comfortable again, because to his own surprise, Brandon does actually fall asleep again, and he doesn’t wake up until they’re taxiing off the runway in New York.

* * *

The time change works against them on this back-to-back; it ’s only a short flight — relatively speaking — but the late start and the time difference mean it’s closer to 3 by the time they finally get in to their hotel rooms.

Brandon gets as far as hanging up his suit and then more or less faceplants onto the bed, leaving the rest of his bags in a pile at the end. He might regret that in the morning, but he absolutely can ’t be bothered dealing with it then. Teuvo’s kind enough to muffle his laughter, because apparently there are some benefits to being the veteran in the room. Sort of.

Teuvo heads into the bathroom, closing the door behind himself with more care than he probably needed given that Brandon isn ’t actually asleep yet, but he appreciates the consideration. He gives himself another couple of minutes to wallow, face down on the pillow before making himself sit up, strip off enough that he’ll be comfortable to sleep, and then he pulls the covers up and over himself. It hadn’t been all that many extra minutes to cover with Shawzy out of the game, but he was definitely starting to feel the effects of double-shifting through the third and that long PK. 

He wouldn ’t have been surprised if this had been one of the rare nights he’d have trouble sleeping; what with everything going on Brandon doesn’t think anyone who knew the full story would expect things to be normal, but the physical exertion and having had to keep a tight cap on his emotions all day have combined to wear him out completely, and he doesn’t think he even hears Teravainen come out of the bathroom again.

A late travel night normally has Brandon itching to sleep in, especially when they ’ve got no morning skate in the middle of a back-to-back, but he finds himself wide awake surprisingly early. Just lying there staring at the ceiling seems singularly unappealing, and when he looks over Teuvo’s still dead to the world, so with a sigh Brandon carefully extricates himself from the blankets, pulls enough clothing on that he’ll pass muster inside the hotel, grabs his phone and heads out. 

He gets breakfast without even seeing any of his teammates, and the idea of sitting down there until someone else turns up doesn ’t much appeal either. Half of them aren’t morning people any more than Brandon is, but it’d be just his luck to wind up with someone who wants to hold a conversation, or worse, wants him to talk too. 

He lets himself back into the room after he starts feeling weird about lurking in the corridor playing dumb flash games on his phone. He should probably charge it up again, too, the battery ’s been kind of shit recently. 

The bathroom door ’s shut, with a thin line of light visible around the edges, so Teuvo’s up at least, and Brandon doesn’t think twice before hitting the lights. He makes sure his suit for the afternoon is actually looking okay still, repacks his bag — not that he’d taken much out last night anyway — and drops onto his bed again, stretching out so his feet are tucked under the blankets at the end. He grabs the remote from the table between the two beds, flicks the TV on with the volume low, and clicks through about fifteen channels before giving it up as a bad job and turning it off again. He’s just not feeling it. 

Brandon considers going to bug someone else to lend him a book or something, but concentrating on anything seems like a tall order right then. He fidgets a little more, tapping his fingers on the mattress, and thinks maybe he should listen to music or something. That usually helps him chill out. He could shower after the kid ’s out of there, but the opportunity to get away with maybe only showering once that day is kind of tempting in and of itself. He sits up again and digs through his bag, although he’s really not even sure what he’s looking for. 

He ’s short on sleep, sure, but that’s not why he still feels restless, like he can’t settle. Brandon stretches again, trying to get his shoulders to loosen up, but he still feels like everything’s wound too tight. He should probably get a massage before the game.

The shower cuts off in the bathroom, and somehow that ’s enough for him to make a decision. He grabs his wallet, his coat, and walks over to tap on the door.

“I’m going for a walk,” he says, pitching his voice so it carries through the thin door. 

“Cool,” Teuvo says brightly, sounding wide awake and thoroughly cheerful. 

Brandon shakes his head. At least someone ’s in a good mood.

It ’s got to be hovering just above freezing when Brandon steps out of the front door of the hotel, and he stops for a second to pull his scarf closer around his neck. It’s certainly bracing, and it takes his mind off turning endless circles wondering just how he’s messed up with Nick so badly. 

He doesn ’t want to get too far from the hotel, but at least New York’s easy to navigate, and he can lose himself a little in the masses of other people also moving along the sidewalk, heads down, keeping warm or staring at their phones or jogging with mp3 players. Brandon steps out of the flow of traffic for a moment, ducking onto the stoop of some apartment building that looks even ritzier than his and fishes his headphones out of his pocket, pulling up some music on his phone. He doesn’t walk too much further out, just lets himself take a left, and a left, and then a third, making a rough loop around the hotel.

He ’s got a little time to think now, and so he lets himself actually focus on the parts he’s been pushing to the back of his mind for the past two days. The way Nick wouldn’t meet his eyes as he asked if Brandon still wanted to fool around anyway. He’s a little afraid that if Nick asked him that again he’d say yes, even knowing it would be a tremendously bad idea. Calling himself an idiot for that takes him from one set of lights to the next. That’s not exactly helping him feel better, so he turns back to thinking over what Nick had said, second-guessing his own responses. He doesn’t know what else he could have said, though. Just thinking over that rehearsed ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ spiel Nick had given him makes his stomach twist painfully again, and then Brandon stops cold, nearly runs into a harried looking woman who’s striding purposefully towards the crosswalk, briefcase in hard and boot heels clicking on the subway grating.

Something about that whole little speech had struck him as odd at the time, but he hadn ’t been able to think past his own immediate reaction. But the word ‘rehearsed’ suddenly seems completely accurate; that had sounded like someone else’s words in Nick’s mouth.

Another couple of people push past him which makes Brandon realizes that he ’s completely blocking the sidewalk, and he starts moving again, walking a little faster now. Nick hadn’t made contact at all yesterday, other than the five minutes they’d seen each other at the UC. Brandon had been almost relieved at the time, but now that last message feels weightier than it had before. Almost before he can even put the thought into words, Brandon finds his phone in his hand, fingers curling around the screen inside his pocket. Yeah. He should call.

He looks up to orient himself, checks where he is in relation to the hotel and ducks into a cafe on the corner, pushing through both sets of doors and into warmth. The smell of coffee and pancakes washes over him, although they have to be coming to the end of the breakfast rush soon. This might be early for Brandon to be up, but the city ’s filled with people who’ve been awake and working for hours already. It’s not too crowded, at least, and he takes a booth in the corner, as far as he can from any of the other people already eating, and orders a coffee from the waiter, waving off the proffered menu.

He turns his phone over in his hands a few times before the waiter ’s back with a mug of black coffee, which he slides across the formica to Brandon. He nods his thanks, and puts the phone down to cup both hands around it for a minute. He probably should’ve also grabbed some gloves, but it’s at least not all that cold out. 

By the time he ’s steeled himself enough to actually unlock his phone and start typing he feels like his hands are back to their normal temperature, and he takes a couple gulps of the coffee — surprisingly not bad — to fortify himself. 

"hey, is now a good time for you?" he sends. It ’s innocuous enough, but hopefully Nick will take it in the spirit in which it’s intended.

"yeah" Nick replies, just a minute later. He must ’ve had his phone in his hand, or right nearby. Brandon tries to push aside a quiet niggle of guilt; there’s no way Nick’s been, like. Staring at his phone nonstop for the past 48 hours or whatever waiting for Brandon to actually answer him. 

Brandon leans his shoulder into the wall beside him, turns sideways and slouches in the booth seat so his face isn ’t really visible either to anyone walking by on the street outside or anyone in the restaurant.

His thumb hovers over Nick ’s name in the contacts list for a long moment, but he’s done things that are a hundred times harder than this, he reminds himself, and taps it before he can think better of it.

The phone rings maybe once before Nick picks up.  “Hey,” he says, and Brandon bites his lip, because fuck, he really doesn’t want this to be over.

“Hi,” he says carefully. 

There ’s a pause. It doesn’t seem like the right time for the usual social niceties, but Brandon doesn’t really know what to say — he was kind of hoping for divine inspiration of some kind — and he needs to know where Nick’s at if he’s going to figure out the best way to tackle this conversation. 

“How are you?” he says slowly, hoping Nick can read his tone. 

“I’ve been better,” and that’s typical Nick; honest and also deflecting just a bit, not giving away too much of himself. Brandon can’t help a slight grimace at that; he definitely knows the feeling.

“Me too,” he says after a moment.

“Sorry,” Nick says, unhesitating this time, and Brandon feels just that tiny bit warmer.

“So, uh,” Brandon starts, turning his mug in slow circles on the table, half-watching the way the liquid sloshes against the sides. “Feel like trying to explain what you meant the other day?”

There ’s another pause, and Brandon can hear Nick taking a slow, deep breath in, can hear him exhaling again, too, before he starts to talk. And it’s not quite what Brandon was expecting; of all the panicky, over-wrought scenarios he’d come up with, he hadn’t quite got to this. It seems almost too easy, too obvious. It wasn’t like he thought Nick had lied to him the other night exactly, but there has to be more behind this.

“I’m going to be in New York for seven years, Saader,” he says eventually. “Well, probably. And I got to thinking, you know, it’s good so far, we’re so good, but— we hardly see each other. I don’t want you to wake up one day and think you’ve wasted time you could’ve been seeing someone who’s, you know. In Chicago.”

“So you figured you’d… save me the trouble?” Brandon asks, trying to understand.

Nick makes an unhappy noise, but doesn ’t disagree.

“But,” Brandon says after a moment, not really sure how to answer that. He doesn’t want that at all, but apparently that’s not clear enough. “I don’t— fuck, Leds, why would I want that?”

“You might,” Nick says, sounding a little helpless. “I just, I don’t know. I guess. It’s hard to read you sometimes, B. You don’t give a lot away.”

That seems unfair, and Brandon has to bite back his instinctive protest that if Nick doesn ’t know what Brandon wants then Nick hasn’t been listening hard enough. 

“What changed since January?” Brandon asks, and then thinks about it a little longer, corrects himself. “No. When you got hurt. Why’d you duck and cover then?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Nick says first. “I’m not, um, great on painkillers, or when I can’t play; I figured you didn’t need to deal with that. Especially during the season, and this close to the playoffs.”

“What part of _dating_ did you forget about?” Brandon says, a little snippy, but he thinks he’s allowed.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Nick says, fast and frustrated. “I haven’t exactly been in this position before!”

“What about that guy you were with your rookie year, that doesn’t count?” Brandon says, sarcastic and a little louder than he means to. “Are you saying your last boyfriend dumped you when you got hurt?” He bites his lip as soon as he realizes how loudly he’d said that, but no one seems to be looking at him. Guess that’s New York for you. 

There ’s a very particular silence on the other end of the phone line then, and Brandon’s grip on his phone tightens, his stomach flips. That’s— surely that’s not fucking it.

“Leds,” he says. “Fuck, Nick, _did_ he?”

He ’d figured that breakup was messier than maybe Nick wanted to admit, the way he hadn’t wanted to talk about it much even when they were doing well was kind of a giant clue there, but, fuck. 

“It might’ve contributed,” Nick says eventually, which is as good as a yes.

“Ugh,” Brandon says. “What a fucking asshole.”

“Hey, no,” Nick says, because apparently he’s compelled to be fair about this or something, what the hell. “He’s not a bad guy, really, we just— the distance sucked, and he didn’t want to wait around. And then we knew I’d probably be sticking in Chicago after Hendry got hurt, so.”

“Seems like a shitty reason to break up with someone,” Brandon says, carefully, and more lightly than he actually means it. “I mean, that worked out okay for me, but.”

Nick barks out a short laugh at that, and Brandon grins helplessly against his phone, leaning forward to rest his elbow on the table, hand covering his mouth for a moment because he suddenly doesn ’t want anyone to see his face right now. He’d missed that. 

“It’s just,” Nick starts, “I guess he knew I was kind of more invested than he was, he wanted to let me down easy. Easier.”

“And that’s what you thought I wanted?” Brandon asks, because that hurts.

“I don’t, I mean. I guess, maybe?” Nick’s slow to answer again, like he’s thinking everything over a couple of times before putting it into words, or maybe like he can’t find the words. “It’s not — I just didn’t think about it, and then I realized I hadn’t thought about it at all.”

Brandon waits for Nick to unpick that more, because he ’s not at all sure what he’s even trying to say there. “Hadn’t thought?” he prompts after a moment, and Nick sighs into the phone.

“It’s dumb,” he says. “I just— I keep making plans, and you just go along with them, and I got to wondering if that’s… what it was.”

“Nick,” Brandon protests, stomach hollow. “No, that’s not— I _want_ to see you, it’s not— no one’s that _nice_ , Leds, I’d say if this wasn’t what I want.”

“Not just good no strings attached sex?” Nick says, clearly trying to play it off like he’s joking, but. There’s something in his voice that makes Brandon furious, that he’s actually spent more than a moment thinking that’s all Brandon is interested in. Brandon really, really dislikes Nick’s ex. Probably it’s good he’s not likely to wind up in Rockford again any time soon.

“ _No_ ,” Brandon says, louder than he’d intended. “That’s not— fuck, Nick, I’m in public, I can’t— that’s absolutely not it.”

“Right,” Nick says, and then, “Sorry.”

It ’s Brandon’s turn to sigh then. “So we’re— we’re still good, then?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Nick says, quiet, and hopeful. 

“Good,” Brandon says, and he takes another quick sip of his coffee. It’s starting to get cold, which is a hint that he should probably get moving again soon. “Ugh, we have the worst timing.” He pauses for a second, but then, no, this is important, it’s kind of the whole issue there, isn’t it, and so he adds, “I really wanted to see you.”

“Yeah,” Nick says. “That— could’ve gone better. Oh, uh. I should have told you before, I kind of. Talked to Boych?” He trails off as if it’s a question, but honestly, that explains a lot, and if he really thinks about it Brandon’s not surprised.

“I know,” he says, and lets Nick connect the dots.

“What? How— oh.” Nick sounds sheepish. “I didn’t mean to, I was just. Kind of messed up on Sunday night.”

“I don’t think he likes me much,” Brandon says, with a vivid memory of that face-wash in the third. Then again, he can sympathize; he’s not all that fond of anyone who makes Nick sound so unhappy either. 

“He’s a good guy,” Nick says, apologetically enough that Brandon will take it how he means it. It sounds like he’ll have a chance to do better, anyhow.

“That’s good,” Brandon says, and then looks across the restaurant to see the time on a large clock right beside one of the doors back out onto the street. Yeah, it’s definitely time he heads back. “Uh, I think I maybe need to go? I have to walk back and we’ve got a team meeting pretty soon.

“You’re not at the hotel?” Nick says, and Brandon would’ve thought that was obvious, unless his phone is picking up less of the noise around him than he’d thought.

“Went for a walk,” Brandon says. “I’m in a cafe down the road. I’ve, you know. Got a roommate, still.” It’s half reminder, half a call back to their old interactions; Nick teasing Brandon about being on his entry-level still, pretending like he’d rather have a room to himself than have someone to watch dumb TV with and talk to. Brandon wound up sharing Nick’s room on the road more than once last year, another point in favor of confirming their friendship hasn’t changed as much as he thought.

“Right,” Nick says, and then, “Hey, do you have any time free before heading to the Garden?”

“Uh, I think after lunch?” Brandon says, thinking it through. “For about an hour, maybe? Why—”

“I can be there in like an hour,” Nick offers, and Brandon knows his heart rate has just picked up. It doesn’t mean— they still have a lot they need to talk about. They need to get on the same page.

“Are you in the usual hotel?” 

“Yeah,” Brandon says, after a moment’s thought.

“Let me know when you’re free,” Nick says. “If you want.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Brandon says immediately. “I’ll text. Or call. You don’t have anywhere else you have to be? I know you were skating in Chicago…” he trails off, because maybe he shouldn’t admit that he was reading enough of what the beats had to say to see that.

“No skate today,” Nick says. “We’re not even playing again till Saturday anyway. And we got in at like three—” he cuts himself off for a moment, Brandon thinks maybe he’s yawning, and yeah, that makes him want to, too. “Which, okay, I guess you guys did too.”

“Bout that, yep,” Brandon says, and looks over to signal for the check. 

“Okay,” Nick says. “You should go, I’ll see you later.” It’s almost a question, but not quite, and Brandon bites his lip. This is going to work out.

“See you,” he says quietly, and there’s a heartbeat while they’re both waiting, but Brandon knows he’s running close to time now, so he hangs up rather than draw that out further, and leaves a couple of bills on the table. It should more than cover the coffee and the fact he was sat there for a good half hour.

He half-jogs back to the hotel, ducking past people, and jaywalking like a local, and gets into the room where they ’re doing tape review a good five minutes before he needs to be. He snags a chair in the middle of the room and sits down with a bottle of water, drinking half of it pretty fast and hoping he didn’t actually break a sweat. It’s a lot warmer in the hotel than it had been outdoors, and so he has to leave a couple of layers hanging off the back of his chair to get comfortable again. If anyone notices anything, they don’t say, but Andy bumps his shoulder and then steals the chair next to him right away from Desi, who’d been about to sit there.

“Too slow,” Shawzy says cheerfully to him, and apparently Desjardins has gotten comfortable enough with them all now that all he does is just shakes his head at Shaw and keeps moving.

“I see you’re not suspended,” Brandon says to him, because seriously, Shawzy. 

“I see you’re in a better mood,” Andy says right back, and shit, he really doesn’t miss a thing when you want him to.

Brandon reaches over to cuff the back of his neck and messes up his hair, too. He ’s got gel in it already, which: uncalled for. Gross.

“Behave, Mutt,” he says, and Shawzy tries to worm a hand free to grab him back, but then Quenneville walks in and they both straighten up right away. Q gives them both a look — Shawzy cops more of it, for probably obvious reasons, and does actually look chagrined for once — but doesn’t say anything, and when Brandon glances over to the other side of the room Toews is smirking at them. Brandon narrows his eyes at him, but then turns his attention back to focus on Q and the other coaches. 

They’re not facing Lundqvist tonight, sure, but Talbot had fucking shut them out — at home — so. Brandon’s definitely good to focus on where he’s weakest.   
  
* * *

Brandon manages to act normal at lunch, or at least he thinks he ’s doing his best attempt at it; he talks to Crow and Duncs and elbows Shawzy beside him a few times, and no one actually throws food like they’re ten year olds, even though sometimes it’s closer than Brandon suspects they should be as actual adults. But he’s feeling pretty good about life, and cautiously optimistic about the game; even if he’d been a little off last night the team was really clicking overall, and if they can keep that rolling they’ll be a good step closer to actually solidifying a playoff spot. Brandon’s not quite at the point of obsessively checking the standings, but it’s getting closer to the point in the year where they pretty much all are, even if no one wants to actually admit it. Brandon’s never been sure if that’s superstition or no one wanting to admit they have any doubts.

They finish eating and most guys are starting to drift back to their rooms, so Brandon checks the time on his phone. He ’s got an hour or so before he should nap; another late start is at least paying off in that regard, although it’s going to see them getting back to Chicago almost as late as they’d got in to New York that morning, especially if this one goes to OT like the game a few weeks ago had. 

Brandon catches up to Teuvo as they ’re waiting for the elevator, and realizes that he hasn’t actually thought this part through. He’ll explain enough to get the room if he has to, but he’d rather not; it’s not like he’s still rooming with Shawzy when he could probably get away with just telling him to fuck off for an hour, just because. 

“Hey,” Brandon says, “Would you mind hanging out with one of the other guys for a bit?”

Teuvo blinks at him, and Brandon wonders if that was maybe too vague, and opens his mouth to rephrase it, and explain, but Teuvo grins, and waves a hand.  “You want the room?”

“Uh, please?” Brandon says. He’d have claimed a family phone call or something if he had to, but Teuvo doesn’t seem interested in any details, just says, “It’s cool,” and then, as they step into the elevator, “I will go see Kimmo,” and that’s good; Brandon definitely appreciates both the privacy and the fact that Teuvo seems so delighted to spend time with Timonen when they can. Plus it’s giving the rest of the team great mileage on all the ‘hockey dad’ chirps.

Brandon sends Nick a message as soon as he steps out on his floor, just his room number and a  “Now’s good if you’re around.”

“I’ll be right up,” Nick sends back almost immediately, like he’s been waiting around, which Brandon guesses he must have been. 

He ’s barely kicked his shoes off inside the room when the phone on the nightstand lights up and rings; it’s the front desk checking if his visitor is expected. 

“Oh, yeah,” Brandon says, flushing a little; he’d somehow not thought of that, that Nick wouldn’t be able to come up without a card of some kind. “I’ll come down,” he adds, and shoves his feet back into his shoes, stepping on the heels in his hurry. 

He ’s still got his phone in his hand, key-card in the other as he waits for the elevator to come back to his floor, looking back down the hallway and hoping no one else comes back out for ice or something. Seeing an ex-teammate isn’t the weirdest thing any of them have ever done in a hotel; it’s not even remotely unprecedented, but Brandon’s just not feeling like explaining or, worse, having anyone else tag along. Again.

As soon as the elevator doors open onto the lobby he can see Nick turn his head, standing over to the side of the front desk, half-tucked behind a large pot plant like he ’s trying to hide, and it’s so ridiculous — so terrible Cold War Spy movie typical — that Brandon has to bite back a rising bubble of laughter. He’s only mostly successful, and as Nick strides over to meet him his first words are, “Wait, what?” instead of whatever other — slightly more normal, Brandon assumes — greeting he’d had planned.

“That was a little Rocky and Bullwinkle?” Brandon says, and Nick laughs and ducks his head.

“So, hi,” Brandon says after that, and he’s not sure what to do; they’d normally greet each other with a fist-bump or a hug or some other physical demonstration; Brandon can’t think of anything that’s not either far too casual or suddenly awkward.

“You’d think this would be less awkward the third day in a row,” Nick says, and he’s feeling it too.

“Yeah,” Brandon says, “Uh, you want to come up to the room? I’ve got an hour or so without a roommate.” He wants to add that he’s not expecting anything — he’s not hitting on Nick; they probably shouldn’t just fall back into bed again without actually solving a few more things, however much Brandon would enjoy that — but he’s not sure how to say that in what is fundamentally a public space.

“That’s good, yeah, yes,” Nick says, and follows Brandon back into the waiting elevator. 

They ’re lucky; no one else — Hawks-related or not — gets on the elevator in the intervening floors, and when they step off on the eighth floor every other door is firmly closed and stays that way.

Brandon fumbles the key card a little and has to jam it in a second time  — some professional athlete he is — but the light goes green a second later and then almost sooner than he’d have thought they’re in the room, door shutting behind them.

Nick follows him in and stops just inside the doorway, coat unbuttoned, watching Brandon carefully, like he ’s not sure how much space he’s allowed to take. 

“You wanna take that off?” Brandon says, and adds, “Uh, your coat,” way too fast and much too awkwardly to come off as anything other than an obviously mildly panicked response. It feels like every solid point they’ve built over the past six months — fuck, Brandon thinks adding it up for the first time, it’s been six months — has either shifted, off by an inch or washed out from under them, and more than anything else Brandon wants that certainty back. He’s used to believing in himself, believing in his family and his team, used to knowing what he’s building and what he’s working for, and he depends on it more than he’d really been aware of until this last week or two. It’s been rougher than he would have predicted if he’d thought about their future in any more nebulous way than half-hoping and half-fearing that he’d see Nick on the other side of the ice again sooner rather than later.

“Yeah, thanks,” Nick says, very quiet still, and he turns away for a moment to hook the coat over the door handle by its collar in lieu of actually opening the coat closet. 

“Uh, we could sit down?” Brandon says, and obviously, the beds are pretty much all that there is in the room. A single armchair by the window isn’t really a good option either, so Brandon deliberately sits on the edge of Teuvo’s bed, points Nick to his. 

They ’re facing each other, waiting to see who wants to start now that they’re there, and Brandon lets himself stare at his socks like they’re the most fascinating things in the world for a good twenty seconds before he can tell himself that this is stupid; they’re wasting even more time now. He looks up, over at Nick sitting just opposite him, notices how his hands are tense where they’re resting on his thighs and he’s sitting up too straight. His legs are stretched out, though, resting on their heels and mere inches away from Brandon’s feet, and so it seems like the most natural thing in the world for Brandon to stretch his leg out, knocking his ankle against Nick’s. It’s shockingly good to touch him, even as platonically as that, and Brandon feels better again already. 

“I’m sorry,” they both start to say at the same time, and Brandon bites his lip, waves at Nick to talk.

“Sorry I’ve been kind of an asshole this week,” Nick says. “I don’t. I didn’t mean to be, and then I was anyway.”

“I just wanted you to talk to me,” Brandon says, the words getting out without his permission, blunt and still edged with hurt. “That was really— that got into my head.”

“You sounded so frustrated,” Nick says, “I hadn’t skated for a week and we were losing and then you were mad at me—”

“I was _worried_ ,” Brandon interrupts.

“And then I wasn’t sure if I would be in Chicago,” Nick keeps going. “And that was worse, because I’d— we’d been looking forward to that.”

“Yeah,” Brandon says. “This wasn’t the most fun week I’ve ever had, either.” 

“I didn’t know,” Nick says slowly, and he’s making eye contact with Brandon now, hands a little less tightly clenched. His shoulders are still a solid line of tension though, and it’s making Brandon itch to touch him, calm him down and wind him right back up again. “I thought— I wasn’t sure, you know. It’s so much harder to see what you’re thinking when you’re not right here.”

Brandon swallows hard.  “I kept telling you,” he says, willing Nick to understand him, to hear it this time. “I wanted to know how you were and I wanted to see you, that was all. I’m pretty fucking invested, Leds.”

“You’re so quiet, sometimes,” Nick says. “It’s just— it’s really hard to read you when I can’t touch you.”

“I don’t know what else I can do to make you actually believe it when I tell you things,” Brandon says, and that clearly hits home; Nick winces visibly.

“That’s… probably fair,” he says. “I didn’t think— until you asked about it I didn’t even think about what happened with Steve. I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t want to fuck everything up. And I guess I did anyway.”

“I don’t think it was all you,” Brandon says, unhappily, because much as he doesn’t want to admit it, some of what Nick’s getting at does make a horrible kind of sense now that he’s thinking about it. “We, uh. We’re really good, together. When we are together, that is,” Nick nods, but lets him keep going. “And mostly when other people are around, too, but I guess— just because we feel like everything’s going good doesn’t mean we should just assume that it is until we mess it up anyhow.”

“So maybe we try to talk a little more?” Nick suggests.

“Yeah,” Brandon says. “I mean. I still want— I don’t want to stop what we’re doing. You’re a really good boyfriend, mostly,” and that might be the first time Brandon’s said that out loud, in those words, ever since that conversation they’d started to have last year and never picked up again. He probably should have.

“You too,” Nick says. “I really fucking miss you.”

“I know we just agreed we need to talk more,” Brandon says, fidgeting with his hands twisting into the bed covers; his toe digging hard circles into the carpet. “But I have to kick you out of here in like fifteen minutes—”

“Which one’s your bed?” Nick interrupts him to ask, and Brandon loses his own train of thought, flashing hot all over. 

“That one,” he says, hoping that they’re getting back to normal; or better than that, but on the same page again.

Nick shuffles back on the mattress, drawing his knees up and feet closer to the bed frame, thighs splaying open.  “So come here, then,” Nick says, and Brandon doesn’t need to be asked twice, launches himself from Teuvo’s bed like he’s been shot out of the proverbial cannon, knocking Nick back flat onto his bed and half-crawling into his lap.

“Hi,” Brandon says again, a little breathless, Nick’s face bare inches from his, lips parted, the pink of his tongue as he licks them standing out against the dark beard. 

“Saader,” Nick groans, “Come on.”

Brandon leans in and closes the last tiny part of the distance between them, kissing Nick exactly how he ’d wanted to do since he saw him, like he’d wanted to do on Sunday, and even, despite himself, like he’d wanted to yesterday, even with everything else that had been going wrong around them.

Nick wraps his arms around Brandon, holding them both steady, and kisses back. Brandon shifts around a bit at first, knee sliding on the bed covers where he ’d braced it on one side of Nick’s thigh, and even though they absolutely don’t have time he can’t quite help himself, rocks down just enough that he can feel it, half-hard in his suit pants. 

“Fuck,” Nick mumbles against his mouth, and nips at Brandon’s lower lip, getting one hand down to the small of his back, warm through the single layer that Brandon’s still wearing.

“Next time,” Brandon says, in between kisses, greedy and hot and sweet.

Brandon ’s just starting to reconsider whether they maybe do have time to go further than this after all; he’s turned on enough it seems more important to refresh his memory as to what it actually feels like to have Nick spread out under him, warm and naked, than it does to do the responsible thing, but before he can put the words together to ask his phone starts vibrating on the nightstand, rattling against the wood.

Brandon straightens up so fast that it makes his head spin, Nick ’s hands falling away. 

“I should check that,” he says, making a face before standing up, reaching over to pick it up. Nick takes a moment longer, breathing fast enough that Brandon can see his chest rising and falling as he lies there, forcibly calming himself down before he sits up again, hands still and open this time as they come to rest on his knees.

As Brandon half-expected, the message is Teuvo asking if he can come back yet, and Brandon steels himself and sends back,  “give me two minutes” and then “thank you,” because he has better manners than that.

“Teuvo,” he says to Nick in explanation, and Nick rubs a hand over the back of his head — which doesn’t help his hair look any less like he’d just rolled out of bed, Brandon has to observe — and gives him a tired smile back.

“I figured,” he says, and stands up. 

“Thanks for, uh, doing this,” Brandon says, following him to the door. “For coming here and, um, everything.”

“Same to you,” Nick says. He turns back to press a quick, chaste kiss to Brandon’s mouth, and adds, “Later, Brandon,” before turning to open the door, looking both ways before stepping out into the hall and heading to the elevator again. 

Brandon indulges himself and stands in the doorway to watch, giving himself five more minutes to miss him before he has to buckle down and get back to doing his job.

By the time Teuvo lets himself into the room again and strips off for his own nap, Brandon ’s showered — the tap set rather colder than normal — and half asleep himself.

* * * 

The game that night is one of the closest they ’ve played in a while, and when it’s still scoreless well into the third both sides are clearly feeling the pressure. Brandon’s on the bench when Richie scores, and though the Rangers come back hard, they manage to hold them off long enough to get Darling the shutout. Brandon checks his phone after the game and sees a message from Nick, clearly sent before the game, maybe during warm ups; a good luck — which makes sense, given the New York rivalry — and a question; 

“Want to see me tomorrow?”

Brandon sends back a  “YES” without even stopping to think about it. They’ve got a couple of days between games, and they’ll have tomorrow off entirely, he can definitely pencil in time for Skype or whatever Nick wants to do.

The mood ’s high on the bus and on the plane back; Brandon plays cards for a while — there’s a new variation on Shark that they’ve been playing — and then grabs a short nap in his usual aisle seat, getting just enough sleep that he doesn’t feel groggy when he wakes up as they’re circling in over Chicago to start landing.

Brandon feels alert and awake enough after that to drive himself home, pumped up on the win, on seeing Nick; feeling like things are going the way they ’re supposed to again. 

It ’s decidedly late by the time he gets back up to his apartment, dumps his coat and suit bag onto the counter after locking the door behind him, leaving his backpack by the door. He can unpack that tomorrow. He wanders towards the living room, thinking maybe he can catch up on the DVR until he’s ready to sleep, but he stops dead in the doorway, realizing belatedly that the light’s on — and Nick’s on his couch.

“What?” Brandon says, too shocked to do more than just stare.

“Hi?” Nick says. He looks a little tired, but solid and there and happy to see Brandon. There’s a hint of uncertainty in his expression, though; waiting for Brandon’s reaction. He doesn’t have to wait long; Brandon drops everything he’d had left in his hands, and Nick stands up just in time for Brandon to crash into him, hugging him tightly. 

“I thought you wanted to call tomorrow,” Brandon says dumbly, chin digging into Nick’s collar. “I didn’t think, I mean. I’m happy to see you, but how are you here?”

Nick shrugs, but doesn ’t let go.

"Well, I have a key and I make a lot of money, so I figured I could afford a last-minute flight. ” He pauses for a second, goes on more quietly. “We already wasted half this week."

Brandon moves so he can see Nick ’s face better. 

"Okay, sure, I don ’t disagree, but— it’s the middle of the season, how did you get away?"

"Well my wrist is fucked, and I can't practice properly anyway, no one ’s gonna notice if I don't get back to New York till tomorrow.” Nick gives him a slightly sheepish look. “And there’s no team scheduled events till Friday anyway, so. Hi.” 

“Oh,” Brandon says. “Cool.”

He takes another good look at Nick ’s expression, the trace of tension still in his jaw, banked heat in the way he’s looking at Brandon, at everything he’s giving away and decides to just go for it. 

"I'm gonna jump you now," he says, and then with a sudden horrified thought adds, "Unless that'll fuck your wrist up more."

"It's taped, go nuts," Nick says, giddy, and Brandon's a little dubious, but Nick's _right there_ , and he fucking missed him so much; this is so much better than kissing him in a fucking bathroom stall or a hotel room where anyone else could have walked in, god, what were they thinking?

It only takes a couple of seconds for them to get into Brandon ’s room, and Brandon’s so busy trying to walk and kiss Nick at the same time that it takes him a couple of swats at the wall with his free hand to even get the lights on, but he succeeds eventually. Nick laughs against his mouth, warm and fond, and kisses him some more, letting Brandon guide him back to the bed.  

Brandon ’s still trying to be careful of Nick's wrist; overcareful maybe, because Nick gets impatient and yanks Brandon's pants open – admittedly with his other hand – to get a hand on his dick. Brandon muffles a groan into the side of Nick’s neck, trying not to move, until Nick tightens his grip, encouraging Brandon to move over him. 

"It ’s hurt, not broken, come on," he says, and Brandon gives in, lets Nick jerk him off fast and messy. 

They make out some more until Brandon gets his second wind, helps Nick out of the rest of his clothes and gets his hands on him in turn, teasing him a little first, running his palm up the inside of his thigh, thumb teasing over the thin skin under his dick, behind his balls, till Nick ’s gasping, almost begging, and Brandon’s tired enough that he can’t make himself draw it out any longer either.

* * *

Brandon almost isn't sure he should believe it when he wakes up and reaches out and Nick's there, like he should've been two days ago. Although, okay, if he'd been there like that two days ago then they would've been in a world of trouble, because even on IR curfew is curfew, no matter how much Brandon likes waking up with him. 

It ’s easy to drift from dozing into kissing some more, although that gets interrupted by the necessity of finding breakfast before they fall back into bed. Brandon won’t let Nick put too much weight on his wrist even though he claims it’s almost totally healed, so they have slow easy sex with Nick on his back, swearing under his breath and shifting needily under Brandon. His breath comes too fast as he arches up, but his touch is firm and decisive as he moves his hands over Brandon’s skin, keeping him close. 

Brandon doesn ’t have anywhere he has to be all day either, so it’s simple for them to stay wrapped up in each other, talking and teasing and napping by turns, reacquainting themselves with each other. When Brandon thinks about it later — curled up on the couch with Nick’s arm draped loosely over his hip, half-assedly catching up on Survivor — it’s an almost perfect day.

Which seriously, shouldn ’t be a surprise: there’s been food and sleep and sex, add in hockey and Brandon isn't sure how many other things he spends a significant amount of his time thinking about. There’s his family as well, and friends, sure, although most of those are hockey friends too, slotting in around the corners of that category. And then there's Nick, hockey and sex and friendship all mixed up in one person. It shouldn't have been a surprise that Brandon was going to fall for someone whose hockey gets him hot, and maybe that makes him a dumb stereotype, but hey. At least he's secure enough to not find it threatening. 

They fall into bed again after that, a bit more awake this time, more energetic, and Brandon ’s wired enough to want to push a little, asks Nick not to use his hands at all, tells him to keep them flat on the bed. He likes knowing Nick can’t get hurt, and it gets him hot, too; having Nick do it just because he asked. Brandon runs his hands over Nick’s chest, makes him shudder as he runs the edge of his nail over his nipples, and then stops, palms braced over his ribs while he looks up to see Nick panting open-mouthed, eyes wide. 

“Still good?” Brandon asks, checking in.

Nick swallows hard, squirms a little and says  “Yes, come on,” and Brandon wriggles further down his body, sucks a mark over his hip, slots himself between Nick’s legs, doesn’t even tease this time, just goes straight down, keeps his mouth soft and wet on the head of his cock. 

Nick moans again, starts to move like he ’s going to grab for Brandon’s head but remembers just in time and lets his hands fall back onto the sheets. 

Brandon pulls off enough to say  “That’s good,” and see Nick’s answering smile. 

He ducks down again, strokes his hand up to meet his mouth, feeling Nick twist and pant under his touch. He draws that out longer, until Nick ’s sounding desperate, begging to come.

Brandon sits up, swallows a couple times, mouth gone dry. He keeps a light hand on Nick, winding him up some more, and then licks his lips before trying to speak again, conscious of Nick watching his every move. 

“You wanna come like this,” he asks, running his fingertip in a light circle around Nick’s cock, “Or something else,” and he bends his wrist, drags two fingers back, skirts around Nick’s balls and teases towards his ass.

“Fuck,” Nick says, breathing fast. “God, Brandon, I want that, your hands, please.”

“Absolutely,” Brandon replies, and he sits up long enough to kiss Nick, reaching over to the drawer of the table by the bed while he does and blindly digging through it for lube.

He sits up, settling between Nick ’s knees, and slicks his fingers up, dragging them wetly over his hip and down along the crease between groin and thigh. Nick makes another sound, too turned on to restrain himself at all, and Brandon pushes his own arousal to the back of his mind, leans in to suck his dick, fast and sloppy this time. It’s easy to slide first one and then two fingers into Nick’s body, hot and yielding, and Brandon’s rapidly getting to the point himself where he’s too turned on to keep a good rhythm, feeling Nick twist between his hand and his mouth, arching up and then bearing down, shaking apart.

Nick comes hard, breath sobbing out, and Brandon swallows, easing him through it. When he sits up, he can see Nick ’s hands are still flat by his side, even though the sheets are rucked up underneath the two of them now.

“Wow,” Nick says after a moment, still unmoving, limp and sweaty and grinning dopily up at Brandon. “I think I want to sleep for a week.” 

Honestly, Brandon isn't surprised, especially if he's been sleeping as poorly as Brandon himself has been. Nick ’s too wiped out at first to do more than make wordless grabby gestures at Brandon, because, yeah, he’s very obviously still hard.

“I’ve got it,” Brandon says, and tugs Nick onto his side, makes sure he's braced and stable, not putting any weight on the wrist that's still strapped up. 

His knuckles brush against Nick ’s stomach as he starts to jerk himself off, knocking against his dick where it's soft and sticky, and he leans in to stay close to Nick, kissing him hard and needy. Nick leans in a little more, almost off-balance, gets his hand free enough to touch Brandon lightly, palm flattening against his abs, stroking up to thumb over his nipples — not hard enough to strain his wrist, as he points out when Brandon stops to check up on him. 

“This isn't fucking straining it, it's fine,” Nick says tightly, “I just want—” and he gets impatient with mere words, reaching out to touch Brandon again, and biting at his mouth.

He gets his teeth into Brandon's lip, tugs it a little before lifting his chin enough to push for more, breathless and a little sloppy, lips dragging, beard burn scratching over his cheeks and chin, till they're panting into each other's mouths almost more than they're kissing. 

Brandon ’s muscles tense as he gets closer, back bowing, and he curses, lips moving against Nick's with the shape of the syllables. Surely he and Nick both can feel the warm rush of liquid as he comes, splashing over his hand, Nick's groin; streaks of white low on his stomach and on Nick's, smearing between them as Nick makes a broken noise and shoves Brandon back so he's the one lying flat on his back. 

He still hasn't caught his breath by the time Nick climbs onto him, weight centering low over his thighs, and braces himself on both hands without even thinking. He doesn't make a sound but Brandon catches the way he goes tense for a second and then redistributes his weight more to the other side. But then he loses track of everything as Nick leans in and kisses him again, firm, demanding, not letting him stop to second-guess any of this until Nick pulls away, says, "Don't move" almost frantically.

Nick ’s gaze is steady as he meets Brandon's eyes and yeah, Brandon isn't tracking any of this well any more at all, just knows he's with Nick, up for whatever he needs right now, too happy to be happy again to actually want to question it.

Which is maybe for the best, because Nick's inching down the bed, a three-point balance between his knees and his good hand, and Brandon's not sure what his goal is at first; they've both got off, Brandon's ready for a nap or another snack, basically; he's nothing if not predictable. But then Nick ducks his head to lick a wide stripe over Brandon's stomach, from the inset curve of his hip bone over to his navel, and then again, moving steadily inward, cleaning him up with, fuck, his mouth; nuzzling into the curve where his thigh meets his pelvis. His mouth is warm, leaving Brandon's skin faintly damp, buzzing in the cool air of his bedroom, and he can feel every hair standing on end, goosebumps and arousal mixed up together, the warm dance of breath over skin that ’s wet with Nick's saliva and the stray drops of his own come, and oh, fuck, yeah, Brandon's getting hard again, dick stirring. 

Nick makes a smug, satisfied noise – he's basically right at eye level, Jesus Christ, no wonder he  _noticed -_ but doesn't actually touch his cock then, just keeps cleaning Brandon up, moving closer and closer, till he's got his nose buried in the coarse dark hairs around Brandon's dick, breathing hot and damp over the skin below. Brandon's dick is bumping up against Nick's cheek, and he hisses in a sharp breath when Nick deliberately leans in, lets his beard drag over the sensitive skin, and oh fuck. They're exploring that a lot more later, Brandon decides, that was — that was so good and also holy shit, if Nick doesn't stop teasing him his head's going to explode.

"And then no one will get you off," he says breathlessly, after explaining that thought all in a rush, too turned on to keep his mouth shut, and god, Brandon thought he didn't actually talk all that much during sex; he's clearly just not been having enough of it. 

"Fuck, Nick, come on — Leds, please," he says, and that finally does the trick, just when Brandon's starting to think his control is going to snap entirely, Nick shuffles back onto his knees — crouched between Brandon's spread legs, and oh fuck, his quads are going to ache later, but it’s so fucking worth it – gets his good hand on Brandon's hip, pressing him gently back into the mattress, reminding him, "Just, try not, too much," Nick says and then ducks in – spreading his weight carefully, forearm laid across Brandon's thigh to keep him balanced without actually using his wrist.

He tongues around the head of Brandon's dick  — Brandon inhales sharply, tries not to curse again — and then swallows him down, sucking at the head, tongue working over the soft skin. He doesn't take too much, doesn't have the leverage for that right then, and Brandon's absolutely not complaining, because it feels so good, every nerve receptor sparking in the most pleasurable possible way. 

He moans when Nick pulls up and off a little, lips dragging on his skin, and Nick swallows visibly, a little raspy, and fuck, that goes straight to Brandon's dick, too; says, "Just, gimme a sec," licks his lips a couple times, and goes right back down again. His lips are spit-slick and slide easily at first, and Brandon can't help himself any more, gets a hand onto Nick's head, finger-combing his hair back off his forehead, nails dragging a little on his scalp. He wants so much to twine his fingers into his hair, pull just a little; knows Nick likes it, but it's not the time, and he didn't ask for it today, doesn't need to be any more off-balance than they both already are. 

When Nick pulls off again to take a couple of fast, harsh breaths in, Brandon can't take his eyes off him; his face focused, arousal clear, caught up in the way his chest moves with each deep breath he takes in, sweating and faintly pink in the face. Nick gets his mouth back onto Brandon's dick and Brandon can tell it's going to be all over in a moment, he's too close, too overwhelmed to do anything more than let his hand curve around the back of Nick's head, thumb stroking behind his ear while he manages to gasp out, "Close, I'm gonna, Nick, oh god, don't stop," and he doesn't, just breathes in fast through his nose – Brandon can feel the way the air moves over the base of his dick and through his pubic hair, fuck – and swallows as Brandon, despite his best efforts, feels his hips snap up as he comes.

"Fuck," Brandon says with some feeling, as Nick crawls back up the bed and tucks himself carefully into his side, bad wrist resting low on his stomach, head pillowed on his biceps, so that Brandon's arm fits underneath him and loosely around his shoulders, Nick's shoulder slotting into his underarm. It shouldn't be comfortable, and yet it kind of is anyway; they probably won't sleep like this but it's nice to just lie there and _be_ for a while, at least.

"Yeah," Nick says, sounding sleepy. "Yeah, we're good at that."

"Gave it a hundred and ten percent," Brandon agrees, smiling dopily. Nick's eyes are closed, he can't see it. And hell, it's not like Brandon hasn't done more embarrassing things in front of him. Being so fucking happy all he can do is smile is not actually a bad thing, Brandon reminds himself. They're trying to do better about putting on other people's perceptions in front of each other. Feel the feeling, he tells himself, with vague memories of being told that in other situations, too. 

"Get some sleep, Leds," he says, and is gratified by the speed with which he can feel Nick relax against him, leftover tension running out like water. _Stress relief, huh,_ Brandon thinks to himself, and then even though he hadn't meant to just yet— he falls asleep too.  
  
* * *  
  
Nick’s got a late flight back that night, so when they wake up again all they’ve really got time to do is call for takeout and eat that in the kitchen, sitting at the table and talking easily. Brandon has his ankle hooked over Nick’s the whole time, and maybe it’s a cliche, but he doesn’t care; this goes a long way to make up for the date they didn’t get to have earlier in the week.

“And we can even pick the music,” Nick says, which just means that Brandon has to give him shit for the terrible country he likes, and they argue about that long enough that they get through the entire meal without actually stopping to put music on. 

Nick insists on helping clean up; they ’d transferred their food to real plates rather than eating out of the cartons like normal, and they rinse everything off and stack the dishwasher before Brandon gives in to temptation and pushes Nick up against the counter, kissing him some more. 

That stays mostly chaste until the dishwasher beeps alarmingly, and they realize they ’ve just knocked some button that Brandon’s not even sure what it does, so by silent, mutual consent they shift back into the living room and onto the couch.

They settle into what had been their typical TV-watching positions before any of this had started; Nick with his feet up on Brandon ’s coffee table (”You made me help you carry this up from the truck, so I get to put my feet on it,” Nick has always said), and Brandon tipped into him, sitting perpendicular to him with his knees in Nick’s lap. The only thing that’s really different now is that Brandon doesn’t have to try and fake casual before slinging his arm around Nick’s shoulders. He knows in the back of his mind they’ve only got about another thirty minutes before Nick’ll have to get a cab, but he doesn’t want to either waste that time being distracted by anything or by starting something they can’t finish. 

“What would you have done if I’d said no?” he asks after a few minutes of silence, because he had been wondering that, in the back of his mind.

“Changed my flight back and never mentioned it,” Nick says, patting Brandon’s knee, thumb rubbing over the fabric of the sweats he’d pulled on when they finally managed to get out of bed again. “I mean. You did tell me to ask next time.”

Brandon lets his own hand cover Nick ’s where it’s resting over the top of his shin, quietly appreciative. “I’m glad you asked, and I’m happy you’re here,” he says, because maybe Nick had said it more obliquely, but what he had said added up to a pretty fucking explicit request that Brandon actually talk to him about this kind of thing, so. He’s doing that, too. “I’m really happy you’re here,” he corrects, and lets himself slouch a little, in what’s probably a terrible position for his spine but one that means he can rest his head on Nick’s shoulder, too.

* * *

Brandon makes time in his schedule after practice the next morning to find some privacy and make a call. It's late enough out east that he's pretty sure Nick will still be home, even if he's planning to get lunch with teammates later. He ’d been asleep by the time that Nick’s flight had landed last night, had woken up to the message that he was home safe and planning to sleep late. Brandon could just have replied to that, but he’d rather hear Nick’s voice. 

"Hey," Nick says, tone warm.

"Hey, happy birthday," Brandon says. "I hear you're pretty old now."

"Oh, fuck you," Nick laughs, and when Brandon automatically comes back with a "maybe later", he just laughs again, and Brandon can absolutely imagine the grin he knows he's wearing. 

They exchange a few more ordinary comments after that, just going over their days so far, plans for the rest of the week.

"Good luck tomorrow," Nick says, as they're about to hang up.

"You guys too," Brandon says, and then adds, "Have a great birthday, Ledpipe. Go out with your boys or something."

"Yeah, maybe," Nick says, and Brandon knows if they do he'll hear about it later, which is almost as good as being there.

It doesn't mean he doesn't send Nick a couple of pictures later that evening as well, though. He's got better at that, too.

* * *

They're coming down to the business end of the season now, and the Hawks have a short road trip, just four games away from home. They split the first two, and then pick up a win in Carolina, although Crow pretty much steals that one for them. Brandon says the right things after the game, same as anyone else: they sat back too much, the Canes didn't quit, Crawford was solid and kept them in it long enough for Shawzy to ice the empty netter. It's hard not to be happy about the win ––especially with Tazer getting his 500 th point and Q hitting a milestone, too – but Brandon feels acutely conscious of how close it was; the scoreline really doesn't reflect the game. He's kicking himself a little for letting the puck roll off his stick in the third, he could've got more on that, but points are points, and these ones are in the bank now. 

He knows – they all know – that they're unlikely to miss the post-season, but when they're not racking up the points as quickly as they want to it starts feeling harder; especially the way the rest of the Central has pulled ahead too. 

Brandon makes himself get up from his stall and finish dressing, doing his best to shake off the unproductive dwelling on the standings; he knows it doesn't help. And if they start over-thinking it then it'll get worse before it gets better, too. 

They go out for food and a couple of drinks afterward, most of the team in one big group, to what Brandon thinks is probably the same place they went last time they were in Raleigh; a lot of the restaurants they eat at blur together after a while when there's nothing particularly distinct about them  — the ones in North Carolina at least stand out, and Brandon knows a lot of the guys look forward to this trip for that reason.

He winds up jammed in between Desi and Krugs, with Shawzy opposite him, so he's not actually expecting a huge amount of conversation – Krugs is pretty quiet in larger groups, and none of them know Desi all that well yet. He's enthusiastically ordering something that sounds more complicated than Brandon can be bothered ordering after a long day –– he'd eat it, sure, but it's easier to just default to pretty much the same meal he'd order almost anywhere after a game. Gotta be better than press box popcorn, though. Although maybe the box in Raleigh has better food. 

He can see and half-hear the other end of the table beside theirs where Versteeg and Darling are giving Crow a hard time about something, although it ends with Steeger shoving a beer into Crow's hand and laughing, so it clearly wasn't anything serious.

"Yo, Earth to Saader," Shawzy says, pretty loudly, and thus probably not for the first time, especially given how he's kicking Brandon under the table, too. Shawzy is a trial sometimes, and Brandon tells him so, barely holding back the urge to flick a cherry tomato off his plate at him. He's too old for that, or at least it would probably kick off all the Manchild jokes again, and not in a good way.

"You love me," Andy says sunnily, "And also, hello, two goals tonight, bow before me."

"Thought the line was to kneel before this one," Desi puts in, grinning, gesturing to Brandon with his thumb, knife still in hand. 

"Well, he didn't score," Shawzer points out reasonably. "Also, I don't think you're his type."

Brandon nearly chokes on his steak.

"Aha, and gotcha," Andy says, like the world's most annoying super villain. One with cute dogs rather than terrifyingly fluffy white cats, at least.  “You’re being weirdly quiet even for you lately, Saader.”

Brandon tries not to engage, because not doing that usually will help to deflect him, and he has no idea where Shawzy's going with this, anyway. That's pretty much what he's afraid of, really.

"You haven't gone out with us in forever," Shawzy goes on to say, "You don't pick up when we do go out, sometimes you bail on dinner … is there some secret girl you're hiding from us or something?"

"I'm really not," Brandon says, with perfect honesty. "Also, I eat dinner with you assholes more than anyone else, so I have no idea what you mean."

"You're old and boring at 22, Saader," Shawzy says, shaking his head. "It's very sad."

Brandon just smiles blandly at him and doesn't push it any further. If things keep working out with Nick then, yeah, probably they'll tell some more people eventually. Shawzy would probably be near the top of that list, too, because he can – appearances to the contrary –– keep his mouth shut when it's important. But they've just got themselves on good footing again, and Brandon doesn't want to fuck with the status quo. Especially when all the time they've got together in the next who-knows-how-long is a couple of half-planned Skype dates. That's getting too close to the part of the year Brandon just can't think about until he's there, though, so he refocuses on the food he's eating, and tries to chirp Shawzy back about everyday other stuff. 

Desi puts in a few comments as well, he's sharp without being cutting, and Brandon grins at him, appreciating it. They haven't spent much time together other than in practices and games so far, but with him and Brandon cycling in on the penalty kill now Smitty's in San Jose they've at least spent more time in practice on special teams. It'll be good if they can find a good rhythm together, too, even though Brandon's usually paired up with Krugs now.

"Oh, hey," Brandon says, remembering something he'd half-heard the other day. "How's your family settling in? Did they move with you?"

And that's enough to set him talking for most of the rest of the meal, showing them all pictures of his baby daughter on his phone, which is more than enough to get Andy cooing at the pictures, and Brandon exchanges a look with Krugs because, yeah, sometimes it's really easy to distract him. 

With both Teuvo and Nordy up with them Brandon's still sharing a room, which is mostly fine, but as soon as they get back to their hotel he holes up in the bathroom for a bit. He wants another shower, but he also wants to see if Nick's messaged him: it's been barely 24 hours since they spoke last and he's a little itchy about it. He's almost looking forward to the way the pace and importance of the games picking up soon is going to make it harder to be distracted by the other parts of his life. 

Nick's not answering when Brandon sends him a quick "Hey, you around?", so he strips off automatically and steps into the shower, leaving his phone safely out of reach on the sink. He jerks off, fast and easy; remembering Nick's hands at his hips, holding him still, the way his mouth had been merciless, shifting from kissing Brandon hot and hard, with a lot of tongue, to trailing down his neck and over his chest, leaving marks, teeth dragging over his abs, getting beard burn all over his thighs before shifting to blow him. It's not a memory so much as it is a well-rehearsed mix of all Brandon's favorite moments, everything he likes so much, and it does the job as well that night as it's done before; Brandon bites his lip to keep quiet and comes fast, letting the noise of the water cover what he can't hold back. He rinses off and then towels dry quickly; he can't hog the bathroom too long, that would be a dick move, and Teuvo's a very laid back roommate, mostly. Brandon doesn't want to mess with his zen, either.

"All yours," he says, coming back out with the towel wrapped around his waist. He can dig through his suitcase to find shorts to sleep in now, he'd forgotten to grab anything before going into the bathroom.

"Thanks," Teuvo says, grabbing a handful of toiletries – he likes to stay mostly packed rather than dumping his stuff all over the hotel room like Brandon tends to – and vanishing into the bathroom. Oops, Brandon thinks, he might've taken longer than he'd intended.

It does mean he can check his phone again without having to worry about his face doing anything unguarded. Which is good, because Nick's apparently having belated birthday drinks with some of the guys out on the Island, and he's sent Brandon a string of badly auto-corrected texts, which tends to mean that he's at least well on his way to drunk. His ability to type seems to go before anything else, Brandon's found. The first few messages aren't anything much, mostly variations of "Yeah!! Sorry we're at a bar, you still around??" and then when Brandon had continued to fail to reply further, he'd put together a couple of really filthy suggestions for things he wanted to do the next time he saw Brandon that make him firstly hope like hell that no one else can see Nick's phone, and secondly incredibly glad he just got off, like, ten minutes ago, because fuck.

"Yeah, we can do that," Brandon messages him back. "But fuck, Leds, don't forget to delete your messages once you sober up. Also, definitely making fun of your hangover tomorrow." He signs it with an x, feeling a little old-fashioned, but that's what he'd grown up doing, and his mom still does the same thing when she leaves him or George or their dad a note, too. He's always thought it was sweet. And as good as the sex is, he sometimes thinks that kissing Nick is what he misses the most.

* * *

Almost before he realizes it, they're in the final stretches of the regular season, just fifteen  — then ten — then eight games left. The Hawks are getting there for the most part, and that's all Brandon can — should — be worried about, but Nick's been getting more and more tense about how his team is doing, stuck in the worst losing streak they've had all season, and at home to boot.

It makes it harder to talk in some ways  — they've all been there before, sure, but it doesn't mean Brandon's any better aware of anything he can say to make things better. If nothing else he's just acutely conscious of how little anyone outside the team can do to help. And it also makes it kind of easier, or at least it makes Brandon more motivated to provide at least some kind of distraction to take Nick's mind off worrying about their win-loss record when he's not at practice or playing, when he shouldn't be thinking about it.

He's not sure how much it helps, but when they do check in with each other over Skype or Facetime or whatever he thinks Nick looks less strained by the end of their conversation than he had done to start. And that helps Brandon keep himself from thinking too much about where the Hawks are in the standings.

The Hawks and Islanders are mostly at home for the stretch run; just short road trips  — "most of yours are short," Brandon says a little snippily to Nick, the east has it easier there and they both know it; Nick doesn't even bother responding to that. They have more chances to call and Skype as a result though; enough privacy to try to cram in as much time together as they can before things get crazy.


	8. April 2015

The sort-of good thing about clinching after the first half of a back-to-back is that while it makes for a good mood on the plane, no one can really go too overboard in celebrating. The locker room is loud before they clear out and head to the airport, and that keeps up for a while on the plane, but it's also getting to the point in the season where everyone is running short on energy, and the plane ride is just long enough to get a decent nap in.

Brandon's only half awake by the time they get to their hotel in Buffalo, and he goes through his usual routine before bed without having to think much about it. Even with a win he's mentally going over some of their missteps, wishing he'd done something different on that break in the third. His phone lights up beside the bed with a text just as he's about to hit the lights and pass out again. He has a pretty good guess who it's going to be; he'd had messages from his mom and dad and from George earlier, and he's not expecting Tro to reply to anything else any time soon given how drunk his last text implied he was getting.

It is Nick, of course; just a quick congrats on clinching — he doesn't say but Brandon assumes that he's just got home himself. Brandon thinks for a moment and double-checks the schedule; the Islanders are off on Friday so there's not much point wishing him good luck right now or anything.

"Your turn next," Brandon eventually sends him. And then, a few seconds later, "Skype date Monday?" It's probably the last chance they'll get before the postseason.

"Yeah, sounds good," Nick replies.

Brandon grins dumbly at his phone and then crawls into bed, turning the bedside lamp off and switching his phone to face-down so that he has to wake up enough to pick it up properly to turn the alarm off the next morning.

He falls asleep pretty much straight away, so it's not until he wakes up the next morning that he sees the last message, sent ten minutes later, that just says, "Kick some ass tomorrow. Miss you."

* * *

Brandon doesn't remember to check his phone after the game until they're on the bus on the way back to the airport. There's a restrained air of good cheer among the team, a win's a win, even if that was very nearly embarrassing. Tazer isn't saying much, but he is smirking and Seabs and Sharpy are both putting a fair amount of effort into chirping him.

He can't say they don't deserve the message he gets, which is Nick unsympathetically just _laughing hysterically_ , or at least that's how Brandon reads the _three full lines_ , _Jesus_ , of "lololol" sitting in his texts.

It doesn't mean he doesn't spend five minutes sulking, though, before texting back "Fuck you!"

He is pretty glad they're careful though as Sharpy gets bored with Tazer and comes back to ask Brandon, "Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"

Sharpy leans right in and reads the text over Brandon's shoulder, and Brandon can't exactly close it right away without prompting more questions than he wants to answer. So yeah, he's glad he deletes anything he doesn't want to explain to the team right now pretty quickly.

"Ooh, harsh, Leds," Sharpy says appreciatively. "Big talk coming from a team that just lost to— uh." And then Sharpy has to pause and clearly realign his plan of attack, because giving Leddy shit about losing to Columbus would just be gift-wrapping the obvious comeback. "Tell him his beard is cheating!" he says eventually and Brandon laughs at that, and does, adding, "Sharpy has not got better at chirping since you left, if you were wondering."

* * *

After the game against the Blues, Brandon doesn’t feel like doing more than sitting in an ice bath for a while, or, by preference, a hot tub, and then sleeping for a week, but instead they’ve got just one day off between that and the last home game of the regular season. Bad enough to lose a home game in regulation to St Louis for the first time in years, but with the Wild bouncing back the way they have since picking up Dubnyk they’re a serious threat too, and Brandon really doesn’t want to wrap up the season with consecutive losses in front of their fans at the UC. Sure, there’s a couple of road games to go still, but at least some of the team will probably be rested for those, their own playoff spot guaranteed, and the seeding almost virtually set as well.

Backes laid a big hit on Brandon during a PK in the second, and it was clean, sure, but still one he’s feeling a day later. The fact that at least they killed that penalty off anyway became a lot less comforting after the Blues managed to convert on their next power-play anyway. Backes being the one to score it just added insult to injury as far as Brandon’s concerned, although he’ll allow that maybe his opinion will change a little if they ever wind up on the national team together. It had grated, regardless, and giving up a second goal and being unable to even get to OT stung at the time, and stings twice as hard the next morning. Or maybe that’s just Brandon’s bruises.

He’s run some of the more urgent errands that have been piling up over the last push to make the playoffs; they’re not going to have a whole lot of time between the end of the regular season and the start of the post-season, but that only takes him some of the morning. He checks in with Nick to find out what works for him for their Skype date, and tries not to worry about it too much. They haven’t talked about the playoffs at all yet, not really; the Islanders are still on the cusp and have been for a couple of games, one or two points short of clinching.

When he gets back to his apartment, Brandon sacks out on the couch to nap and half-watch TV; there’s a Criminal Minds marathon on which he at least doesn’t need to pay much attention to watching, and he can easily spend a few hours that way. He’s not entirely sure what time it is when the sound of his phone vibrating on the coffee table wakes him up. He glances over at the TV first on automatic, although that doesn’t help, because he’s left the remote on the other arm of the couch. He sits up blearily and snags his phone first — it’s a message and not a call, thankfully — and then reaches out for the remote, flicking the mute on while he checks his messages.

He’s apparently slept through his mom checking up on him, and giving him an updated ETA on when they’re all likely to get in to Chicago ahead of the first playoff home game, and as he’d expected, the second message — the one that woke him up — is from Nick.

“Home early,” it reads. “How’s now for you?”

“Now’s good :)” Brandon sends him back, and he settles back onto the couch once he’s retrieved his laptop, resting it on his thighs and waiting patiently while it wakes up.

He barely gets Skype open before Nick’s call is coming through, and Brandon clicks to accept it with almost embarrassing haste.

“Hey,” Nick says, shooting him a quick grin. It’s the real one, the one that lights up his whole face, and Brandon’s so fucking gone on him that all he can do is smile back.

“Hi,” Brandon says, sitting up straighter, shifting so that he can see Nick better; so that he’s at a better angle for his own webcam. They’ve got this part down to a fine art by now.

“How’s your day been?” Nick asks, making a face at the sheer inanity of the question, but he pauses expectantly for Brandon to answer.

Brandon shrugs. “Eh, nothing special. You?”

Nick looks down at his keyboard for a second before answering. “Off ice this morning, and the train to Philly later today, it’s been pretty quiet.”

“You want me to liven it up for you?” Brandon teases, letting his thumb drift suggestively towards the top button of his jeans, raising an eyebrow. He doesn’t think Nick’s going to go for it, but hey, he’s… putting it out there, so to speak.

“I can’t believe I’m saying no to this,” Nick says, licking his lips in what Brandon’s pretty sure is an unconscious response. “But, maybe later. Not that I don’t want to.”

“I figured,” Brandon says, moving his hands more demurely back to hover over the keyboard, and he gives Nick another smile, encouraging. “Is this just a catch up, or did you have something in particular in mind?”

“Uh, yeah,” Nick says, and there’s a subtle tension in his posture now, one that hasn’t been there for a while now, and Brandon hasn’t missed it. He’s not going to panic, though; they’re doing better about talking about this kind of thing now, and there’s no reason to believe this is going to be any different.

“We should probably talk about the playoffs,” Nick starts. “I mean, assuming, you know.” Brandon doesn’t seriously think the Isles are going to miss out, not this year, but the east is a hell of a mess this year and it’s still possible. He’s not going to push Nick about that, not until they clinch as well. Which they’ll hopefully manage tomorrow against the Flyers. He’s not even going to think about anything more than that until _and_ unless it happens. “But I wanted to ask something else first?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Brandon says. He doesn’t have any idea where Nick is going with this.

“Bails is getting married in June,” Nick says. “Uh, Josh Bailey.”

“Nick,” Brandon interrupts, “I know who your teammates are.” He hasn’t seen Nick be this visibly nervous in a while.

“I have a plus one,” Nick says, all in a rush. “And so, uh. Will you go with me?”

Brandon doesn’t even have to stop to think about it for more than a heartbeat.

“Yeah,” he says, and he should maybe be nervous about that, or more cautious or maybe even a little afraid, but he’s not. It’s the right choice.

“Um, I mean, like. As my date,” Nick says, stumbling over his words a little, talking too slow the way he does when he really wants to sure he’s expressing himself well.

“Yeah,” Brandon says again. “I did get that part. I’m okay with your teammates knowing if you are.” He pauses, but this is probably the right time to do this, too, so after a moment he adds, “And if it’s okay with you, I want to tell a couple people here? And Smitty, I guess.” If he doesn’t already know, Brandon doesn’t say, but mostly because he thinks Ben will appreciate actually being told, and because he and Nick both suspect it’s not going to be all that much of a shock to anyone who really knows them well.

“Just let me know before Shawzy blows up my phone,” Nick says. “Or should we tell him together?”

“So he doesn’t know who to start chirping first?” Brandon asks. “You’re right, that is a better idea. Though, uh, after the playoffs maybe? If that’s okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick says. “’No distractions’.”

“You’re a good distraction,” Brandon says softly, and then they have to just smile dopily at each other for a long moment.

“So where is this wedding anyway?” Brandon asks, pulling up his calendar on his phone. He may as well add it now.

There’s a pause. “Uh,” Nick says.

Brandon cracks up. “You have no idea, do you?”

Nick rolls his eyes, but it’s sheepish. “The Save the Date is somewhere in my kitchen, I’ll find it later.”

“You do that,” Brandon says, smirking. It’s not often he catches Nick out like that, of course he’s going to rib him about it some.

“Playoffs, though,” Nick says, getting back to business. Apparently they’re done being grossly sentimental for the moment.

“Mmm?” Brandon asks. Neither of them has missed the playoffs since they made the show; Brandon’s not sure what he’d do or how it would feel if they hadn’t, hopes Nick doesn’t have to find out himself any time soon.

“How do you want to— do this?” Nick asks eventually. It’s not like Brandon hasn’t been thinking about it, even if it hasn’t come up till now.

“I think,” Brandon says, picking his words and his way through this carefully. “Maybe we just talk after? Or after a series, whatever happens.”

Nick nods, not looking conflicted at all. Good. Brandon had thought they were probably going to be on the same page about this. He barely has time or energy to think about family or anything outside the immediate grind during the playoffs, and it’s not that Nick would be an impediment at all, but trying to juggle a fully involved relationship through all that seems like a recipe for disaster; for the relationship if not the games. There’s a few reasons the teams tend to put them all up in hotels, even when they’re at home.

Brandon thinks, in the back of his mind, that maybe if the Isles don’t make it he’ll ask Nick to come back to Chicago early. Or if they get out before the Hawks are done. But he can safely leave that question for now.

“And we’ll cross that other bridge if we come to it,” Nick suggests, which is a more delicate way than Brandon could come up with of saying that if they meet in the Final they’ll deal with it when it happens. It seems bizarre to think that that’s even a possibility now, but there you have it. That’s maybe not anything Brandon could have predicted way back before the beginning of the season, before all of this started— but it’s not impossible, either.

“Sounds good to me,” Brandon says, and he can’t seem to stop smiling now, bubbling over with relief and possibility and a soft, steady happiness underneath it all. They really are good at this.

“So,” Nick says, also looking relieved that the serious part of the talk is over, relaxing all over from the way he’s sitting in front of his computer — at the kitchen table, if Brandon’s remembering the wallpaper behind him correctly — to the way he’s watching Brandon through the video connection. “I’ve got about another thirty minutes free before I need to go. You were saying something about distractions?”

“You bet,” Brandon says, tugging his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans. So he’d dressed up a little, so what? Nick likes to watch him get naked.

“Oh, wait,” Nick says, and Brandon freezes, flies half unzipped. Nick’s timing could use some work.

“One more question,” Nick says, and Brandon tilts his head consideringly, eyes on Nick’s. “This summer, I’m gonna spend some time back in Minnesota for a couple weeks, catch up with family, that kind of thing. You want to come home with me?”

Like Brandon’s ever going to say no to that.


	9. Epilogue

_Chicago:_

It’s after 5am by the time they actually leave the UC; the sun’s coming up, the skyline washed clean and clear in the distance. Brandon’s exhausted, half-delirious with happiness and adrenaline and more Bud Light than he quite kept track of. The party looks like it’s going to keep going, moving with the Cup to bars downtown, and maybe he should be tempted to keep going, stick with the rest of the team — everyone who hasn’t quietly already ducked out to be with their families and partners and kids — but he’s got someone he hasn’t seen yet.

Nick had taken a couple weeks after the Islanders lost their series; spending time tying up some loose ends in New York and then taking a quick visit home to Minnesota. Brandon had managed to get a day with him after game four, a nice little bonus for the sweep — and, a little awkwardly, meet his parents, who’d been nice if a little bemused, and also not doing the best job of hiding the fact they were not particularly pleased to have the Hawks beat the Wild again now that Nick wasn’t there.

They hadn’t spoken much after that; Brandon had been thoroughly wrapped up in the Western Conference Final, and it wasn’t like Nick didn’t know what that was like.

“Fucking jealous,” is how Nick had described himself right before the Cup Final proper had begun, and Brandon— well, he can’t understand, not totally; as a late call-up the first round loss against the Coyotes hadn’t really sunk in or stung quite the same way as it had for the guys who’d been there all year — but he can imagine.

They’d talked in generalities, and Brandon had rapped his knuckles on the wood of his kitchen cabinets almost on auto-pilot, hardly noticing as he did it, better safe than sorry. Nick still has spare keys, so he’s been just staying at Brandon’s place. They hadn’t had to discuss it really; that he’d be watching on TV rather than in the building, even though Brandon could doubtless have found a ticket for him or got him into a box. Neither of them was ready to do anything dramatic, and it wasn’t like people wouldn’t recognize Nick if he was at the UC anyway. And they’d have questions. And while he didn’t say anything specific about it, Brandon got the sense he didn’t entirely want to be in the building anyway. He can understand that, he thinks.

But the upshot of all of this is that Brandon’s tired and over-stimulated and he’s twenty two years old, and he’s just won the Stanley Cup for the second time.

And he’s got someone waiting at home for him.

* * *

_Pittsburgh:_

"It'll be fine," Brandon says to Nick, wrapping his fingers around his wrist, squeezing comfortingly tight. "They'll be here any minute, c'mon, chill." It’s possible that Brandon is talking more to himself than he is to Nick. Nick is already pretty calm, so far as Brandon can tell.

"Didn't you say Trocheck is chronically late?" Nick asks, quite reasonably.

"Yeaaaah," Brandon says, and when Nick just raises an eyebrow at him he leans in to add, "Okay, sure, we can do this first," and kisses him, getting his other hand up onto Nick's jaw, thumb stroking the thin skin of his throat.

That goes on for a while, and gets better and better, and Brandon's just hazily at the point of thinking that maybe he can get Nick stretched out on the couch and get him off before anyone else actually turns up when he hears someone behind them ostentatiously clearing their throat.

He pulls away — patting Nick's thigh comfortingly, where no one standing behind them at the door could see, thank you very much — and cranes his neck to look over at the door. Yup, there's Vince, punctual like he never normally is, and he's outright laughing at them both. Brandon just smiles at him and refuses to react any further.

"Hey Vince," he says, and when Nick — struggling for composure but at least giving it a good enough shot that Brandon doesn't think anyone who doesn't know him well would be able to tell — turns as well, he waves one hand carelessly and says, "Hey."

"This is exactly why I wanted to be the first one here," Vince says to them, before turning to yell out the door "Come in, they're decent!" and then he wanders into the living room, making himself at home immediately on the couch on Brandon's other side. Brandon feels just the tiniest bit trapped.

"That's hurtful, Tro," he says, shaking his head — and not taking his hand off Nick's knee. All the guys coming over for a casual cookout are good friends, close enough that Brandon's already told them about him and Nick. This is just going to be the first time most of them meet. Trying to do that at the same time as his day with the Cup — and that hasn’t got any easier to comprehend since it happened — seemed like a recipe for disaster.

"And yet, am I wrong?" Vince says. "I know what you're like. Hey, you stocked up on beers, right?"

"Yes, jeez," Brandon says. "They're in the fridge, I assume you remember where that is, too, since you've spent enough time raiding it over the years."

"Someone said beer?" and that's Rossy, making a lot of noise as he dumps a backpack at Brandon's front door, holding it open for a couple of the others to follow him.

"Tro's getting it," Brandon says, and then stands up to greet them all, exchanging fist-bumps and hugs. "Guys, this is Nick."

"Hey," Nick says, coming to stand by Brandon, close but not quite touching.

"Don't worry about remembering everyone's names," Brandon says, "Most of them answer to 'hey, you' if you're feeding them," And because he wants to be sure they're all on the same page about the statement he's making, he wraps his arm around Nick's waist and tugs him closer. "By the way, we ordered pizza."

The collective cheer at that is exactly the same as it's ever been, so yeah: Brandon thinks everyone's going to get on just fine.

* * *

_Toronto:_

It’s been a nice wedding. It was actually a very nice wedding, Brandon thinks, and it’s been a fun weekend away with Nick, too. He’s not sure how much of a heads-up Nick had given his teammates — or at least, the ones who made it for the wedding — but no one had looked twice at Brandon for actually being there, even when he’d glanced around, hadn’t seen anyone with a phone or camera in sight, and kissed Nick fast before they sat down for dinner. While neither he nor Nick really wanted much attention, and it wasn’t like either of them was any good at dancing, it had been really great to just sit and talk — to other people as well, Brandon’s not going to be _that guy_ , thanks.

He’s copped a few comments about the Cup run — especially from the Minnesota guys who’ve known Nick longer, and how damn many Minnesotans does a single team need, anyway, seriously? — but nothing serious, and he doesn’t get the impression anyone they’ve spoken to is going to run off and out them.

It’s a relief, kind of a big one, actually, and Brandon hadn’t realized how much of one — or exactly how relieved he would be — until they actually got there and did it. They got dressed in their hotel room before the ceremony, and Nick ended up giving Brandon one of the bottles from the mini-bar before telling him to sit down, drink it, and stop worrying. And stop messing with his tie. He’d tied and retied it about five times before Nick had taken it out of his hands and tied it for him.

Admittedly, it still hadn’t been quite right, but he got the point and just buttoned his suit jacket over it rather than crease the silk any more. Plus, he’d been hogging the mirror.

“You clean up nicely,” he’d said to Nick, after he’d come out of the bathroom himself, sharp in a pressed white shirt and suit pants, his own tie still loose around his neck. His hair looked really good, too, Brandon couldn’t help but notice, and he’s been sitting on his hands all afternoon to resist the urge to touch and mess it up again.

“Same to you,” Nick had said, looking back at him, leering just a little. Brandon had, dammit, gone pink in the face — being clean-shaven had some major downsides — and promised himself that he’d get Nick for that later.

The reception’s winding up and Brandon has made a little more of a dent in the open bar than he’d totally meant to by the time they drift back into the hotel and up to their suite. Brandon’s tie has been undone and stuffed in the pocket of his suit jacket since the happy couple’s first dance together; he hadn’t been the first to do so by a long shot, and Nick had followed suit shortly after, too. He’s got his shirt-sleeves pushed up around his elbows, his jacket and Brandon’s both over his arm; Toronto in June is sticky-warm and humid still even close to midnight, Brandon’s looking forward to stripping out of his formal wear for several reasons by this point.

They lock the door to their suite behind them, discard jackets and all the other bits and pieces they don’t need any more in the tiny living room area that sits between the kitchenette and the master bedroom. There’s two bedrooms attached to the suite, but they only need one of them, the hotel big enough to cope with the entire wedding party and guests without necessitating the offer of the second room to anyone else. Brandon likes the idea of not needing to hide anything, but it’s been a long day, and right then he appreciates the privacy. And has very firm plans about using it.

Nick wanders into the kitchen and comes back with another couple of beers; both frosted over with condensation, clearly ones he’d stashed in the fridge earlier. He hands one to Brandon, gestures to the couch, and so they both settle down there to start; shirts untucked, feet up on the coffee table, shoulder-to-shoulder, quietly letting the day wind down around them.

Brandon's made fun of half the guys he knows for being handsy drunks; Tro definitely is, Rossy's even worse, and Nick and Shawzy are both up there. Shawzy at least usually goes for easier targets than Brandon, although maybe that's just because Brandon's so used to it that he doesn't react as entertainingly. He's coming to realize that maybe he's kind of a hypocrite though, because maybe he’s overdone it a little, too relieved that everything was just as okay as he’d hoped to actually monitor his intake the way he usually would.

He's drunk enough that he's really feeling it, right at the point where it's practically a compulsion to tell anyone else around him how drunk he is, and normally he'd probably be doing that, but Nick's right here, having spent the last hour of the reception drinking his own beer a lot more slowly, and he’s giving Brandon that goofy grin that makes him feel like he just swallowed another fifth of whiskey or something, warming him from his toes and fizzing right the way up into his chest.

Nick's just sitting there on the couch, all casual, like there's nothing special going on, which is outrageous, because _he's there_ and Brandon needs to tell him how fucking great he is. He turns to put his drink down, and the coffee table slides away from him, slipping sideways, or maybe that's just Brandon. He's over-cautious as he settles the glass bottle, making sure it doesn't tip, that he doesn't knock it with the side of his hand, although it makes a loud, sharp rap hitting the table, like maybe his fine motor control is starting to fray.

There's enough left for him to tuck his legs up under himself, shuffling around so that he's facing Nick, his right hand on the back of the couch for balance.

"I'm very happy you're here," he assures Nick, extremely solemnly. “I’m happy I’m here,” he corrects, because Nick would’ve been here anyway; Bailey’s on his team after all.

"Wow, you are fucking sauced, Saader," Nick says, which is— disappointing. Brandon's not _that_ drunk. Probably. Nick's laughing at him a little too, eyebrows drawn together and the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I'm not," he insists, and frowns. Nick's still biting back laughter, keeping it together just enough that the only clues are the way his eyes are over-bright and fond as he watches Brandon, the way his teeth dig into his lower lip for a moment, the way he always does when he's trying to focus or to stay serious. Brandon doesn't want him to be serious, or at least he doesn't want him to be all strait-laced like he's being now, or anything. Brandon wants to curl into him and get his hands on him again already. He wants to bite at Nick's mouth and make him moan.

 _No time like the present,_ Brandon thinks to himself a moment later, because why wait? They're the only ones around now, after all.

"Hey," Brandon says, and he shuffles over on his knees, grabbing Nick's shoulders for balance, and then not letting go because it feels good; Nick has nice shoulders and his skin is soft and warm under his shirt when Brandon slides his thumbs under the collar. He shifts around a little more, letting Nick counter-weight him, till he's got a knee either side of Nick's hips, his shins aching a little at the angle as the cushion sinks under their combined weight, as the edge of the frame doesn't give at all under his ankles.

He's not going to notice or care about that in a minute, though, it's not important, what is important is settling into Nick's lap, leaning forward so they're chest to chest, so all he has to do is duck his chin down to kiss him.

"Saader," Nick starts to say, but the syllables are swallowed up between then, and Nick's kissing him back a microsecond after their lips meet anyway, which is all the encouragement Brandon needs, honestly.

"Brandon," he manages, when they break apart long minutes later, his hands on Brandon's ass, holding him steady, sneaking down every now and then to trace the long muscles of his thighs, stopping just before his knees, because even slightly tipsy Nick remembers how ticklish the backs of Brandon's knees are.

"Nick," Brandon repeats in the same tone and then leans in again, pressing Nick back into the couch, rocking back and forth ever so slightly so his weight's working on Nick in the most satisfying way possible. "I'm kinda drunk," he admits, and Nick laughs, breath warm where it puffs against his lips, the tip of his tongue darting out to moisten them, and Brandon's gaze is caught by that again, the contrast between his lips and the dark beard, drawing Brandon in again, and almost without meaning to he tightens his hands on Nick's shoulders, sways forward to kiss him again, more aggressive this time, teeth scraping at his lip, demanding.

"You feel really good," Brandon says when he pulls back the next time, panting the words out in between breaths. His head is swimming a little, sure, but he's sober enough to know that he'd want this just as much if they'd both been sticking to water all night.

"You, ah, too," Nick gets out, eventually, and he's starting to look wrecked, eyes glued to Brandon, holding him just as tight as Brandon's clinging on to him. It's not like Brandon seriously thinks he'd fall or anything, but it's nice to know Nick's got him.

Nick's got him however long he wants him.


End file.
